The  Anthology 
of  Another  Town 


UC-NRLF 


THE  ANTHOLOGY 
OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 


VENTURES    IN    COMMON    SENSE 

BY  E.  W.  HOWE 
With  an  Introduction  by  H.  L.  Mencken 

"  A  man  thoroughly  American,  ...  he  yet  manages  to 
get  the  method  of  the  free  spirit  into  his  study  of  the 
phenomena  that  lie  about  him,  and  even  into  his  exam 
ination  of  the  thing  that  he  is  himself.  In  him  is  the 
rare  quality  of  honesty  —  a  quality,  in  fact,  so  seldom 
encountered  in  American  writing  that  it  would  be 
stretching  the  truth  but  little  to  say  that  it  is  never 
encountered  at  all." — H.  L.  Mencken. 

$1.75  at  all  bookshops 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

220  WEST  FORTY-SECOND  STREET 

NEW  YORK 


THE 
ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

By  E.   W.   HOWE 


NEW  YORK 
ALFRED- A-KNOPF 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


•  . 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF   AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

Doctor  Gilkerson,  11 
Jim  and  Dan  Ayres,  21 
George  Coulter,  23 
Sammy  Hemingway,  32 
Davis  Straight,  39 
Sam  Harris,  44 
Bart  Wherry,  47 
Pilson  Blair,  49 
Ben  Barton,  50 
Lige  Banta,  54 
Mary  Mason,  58 
Uncle  Jimmy  Haskins,  60 
Gus  Sanderson,  62 
Tom  Harrison,  63 
Judge  Terry,  64 
The  Wittwer  Boys,  65 
Aunt  Mahala,  68 
Marie  Taylor,  70 
Bill  Hall,  72 
John  Davis.  74 

939867 


CONTENTS 


Hon.  Martin  Holbrook,  75 
Ans  Whitcomb,  76 
Mart  Towne,  78 
Sarah  Brownell,  79 
Tom  Marsh,  80 
Jim  Searles,  81 
Sandy  McPherson,  83 
Joe  Bush,  84 
Cleve  Hunt,  86 
Michael  Rafferty,  87 
Joe  Wells,  88 
Tom  Harper,  89 
Asberry  Morton,  90 
Ben  Bradford,  99 
Pete  Robidoux,  100 
Bill  Harmon,  103 
Doc  Robinson,  106 
Jim  Shields,  107 
Ben  Thompson,  108 
Jerry  Shackelf  ord,  109 
Cap.  Hansen,  111 
Henry  Wulfburger,  113 
George  Pendleton,  114 
Colonel  Andy  Miller,  116 
Bud  Moffett,  121 


CONTENTS 


Milt  Sayer,  122 

Walt  Williams,  128 

Belle  Davison,  129 

Andrew  Hackbarth,  130 

Joe  Stevens,  133 

Gladys  Hart,  136 

Mrs.  Joe  Buey,  139 

John  Davis,  141 

Taylor  Ward,  142 

Mary  Ransom,  143 

Charley  Grover,  144 

Thomas  Lane  Montgomery,  149 

Old  George  Bennett,  150 

Glen  Barker,  152 

Harvey  King,  154 

Vic  Walker,  156 

George  Coleman,  157 

Joe  Ward,  158 

Emanuel  Strong,  160 

Ed.  Marsh,  161 

Mrs.  Mark  Thompson,  162 

W.  T.  Hawley,  163 

Lawyer  Bailey,  164 

George  Lawrence,  165 

Mrs.  John  Hart,  166 


CONTENTS 


George  Hart,  167 
Old  Mr.  Neal,  168 
Bill  Alvord,  169 
Martha  Wendell,  170 
Chris  Halleck,  171 
Joe  Allen,  172 


THE  ANTHOLOGY 
OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 


DOCTOR   GILKERSON 

When  I  was  a  little  boy,  living  on  a  farm,  my  father 
returned  one  evening  from  the  country  town  where 
he  had  been  several  days,  and  announced  that  he  had 
bought  the  weekly  paper  printed  there.  I  had  no 
idea  what  a  printing  office  was  like,  but  soon  had  op 
portunity  to  find  out,  for  the  next  morning  I  was  taken 
to  town,  and  turned  over  to  the  foreman,  who  was 
told  to  make  a  printer  of  me. 

The  man  who  taught  me  the  trade  was  an  old-fash 
ioned  printer  named  Martin,  who  had  a  bed  in  the 
office,  and  who  wrote  stories  for  the  New  York  Mer 
cury,  played  the  guitar,  sang  ballads,  and  took  part 
in  amateur  theatricals. 

My  brother  Jim  worked  with  me,  and  we  worshipped 
Mr.  Martin.  He  gave  us  little  suppers  in  the  office 
at  night,  when  we  had  rare  things  to  eat  we  had  heard 
of,  but  never  hoped  to  taste;  including  cove  oysters 
with  little  round  crackers,  instead  of  the  big  square 
kind.  At  the  conclusion  of  these  suppers,  Mr.  Mar 
tin  told  us  stories.  Usually  we  became  so  sleepy  that 
he  was  compelled  to  drag  us  into  his  bed,  and  spend 
the  night  himself  on  a  pallet  on  the  floor. 

Among  other  things  this  wonderful  man  told  us 
—  11  — 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

about  was  the  circus;  he  had  seen  one,  although  there 
had  never  been  one  in  the  town  where  we  lived.  But 
one  day,  after  Mr.  Martin  had  gone  away  for  good, 
and  Jim  and  I  were  doing  the  mechanical  work  on  the 
paper  with  the  assistance  of  the  editor,  the  advance 
agent  of  a  circus  came  to  town  in  a  wagon;  in  those 
days  circuses  travelled  overland,  there  being  few  rail 
roads,  and  none  at  all  in  our  section. 

We  were  tremendously  excited,  as  Mr.  Martin  had 
said  printers  always  received  free  tickets.  Much  to 
our  dismay,  however,  father  had  a  quarrel  with  the 
agent.  Father  was  a  preacher,  and  said  circuses  were 
immoral;  therefore  no  picture  of  an  elephant  should 
appear  in  his  paper.  What  was  more,  he  said  he 
would  use  his  influence  to  keep  people  away  from  the 
circus  man's  demoralizing  exhibition. 

It  was  a  terrible  blow,  but  father  kept  his  word: 
he  attacked  the  circus  with  as  much  violence  as  he 
attacked  the  institution  of  slavery,  a  question  then 
prominent.  So  Jim  and  I  looked  at  the  bills,  and 
wondered  if  we  should  be  able  to  see  the  show. 

When  circus  day  arrived,  father  told  us  we  were 
to  work  all  day,  and  not  see  the  crowds,  or  the  parade. 
The  attack  of  the  editor  on  the  circus  did  not  do  it  any 
harm ;  indeed,  early  on  the  morning  of  circus  day,  the 
town  was  crowded  with  country  people  from  many 
miles  around.  And  every  farmer  who  came  into  the 
printing  office  to  pay  his  subscription,  made  jokes 
—  12  — 


DOCTOR    GILKERSON 


with  the  editor,  who  was  somewhat  surly  because  his 
good  advice  had  not  been  taken.  It  was  the  town's 
first  circus,  and  we  soon  discovered  that  it  was  also 
the  town's  greatest  crowd.  Teams  began  arriving  in 
the  vacant  lot  back  of  the  printing  office  at  an  early 
hour;  the  horses  were  hurriedly  unhitched,  and  the 
owners  went  away  to  see  and  mingle  in  the  excite 
ment.  In  the  front  office  the  editor  was  having  an 
uncomfortable  time  with  farmers  who  thought  it  a 
great  joke  on  the  paper  that  its  abuse  of  the  circus 
had  brought  an  enormous  crowd. 

While  the  editor  was  arguing  angrily  with  a  number 
of  men  about  the  iniquity  of  the  circus,  and  the  men 
were  laughing  merrily,  I  told  Jim  I  intended  to  make 
a  sneak,  and  see  the  circus,  if  I  died  for  it.  Jim  was 
a  good  boy,  and  warned  me  not  to,  but  when  he  saw  I 
was  determined,  he  accompanied  me  in  the  wild  run 
we  made  for  liberty. 

When  we  reached  the  street,  we  found  the  circus 
had  not  yet  arrived,  so  we  set  out  with  a  number  of 
other  boys  to  meet  it.  We  knew  it  was  to  come  in  on 
The  Falls  road ;  every  boy  knew  that,  somehow,  so  we 
travelled  that  way  until  we  became  suspicious,  and 
turned  back.  Reaching  town,  tired  and  hungry,  we 
found  the  circus  had  arrived  by  another  road,  and  that 
the  parade,  and  the  afternoon  performance,  were 
over. 

We  were  hungry,  but  didn't  dare  go  home,  so  we 
—  13  — 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

hunted  up  a  woman  we  had  known  in  the  country,  and 
she  gave  us  something  to  eat.  Then  we  started  out 
to  borrow  money  with  which  to  attend  the  evening  per 
formance.  But  we  didn't  make  any  progress,  so 
when  the  band  struck  up  for  the  night  show,  we  de 
cided  to  crawl  under  the  tent.  It  seemed  easy, 
and  I  was  about  in  when  a  man  caught  me  by 
the  heels,  and  pulled  me  out.  While  the  circus 
man  was  cuffing  me,  I  saw  another  circus  man 
cuffing  Jim,  about  twenty  feet  away;  he  had  also 
failed. 

Then  we  met  a  man  named  McCurry,  a  member  of 
my  father's  church;  a  good  man  who  did  not  intend 
to  witness  the  wicked  performance,  but  who  was  never 
theless  walking  around  outside,  to  see  the  crowds, 
and  hear  the  band.  We  appealed  to  him;  we  said  we 
had  run  off,  and  would  get  a  whipping,  but  that  it 
would  be  terrible  to  get  a  beating,  and  not  see  the 
performance. 

Mr.  McCurry  looked  around,  to  see  no  one  was 
watching,  and  said: 

"Well,  I  don't  want  your  father  to  know  it,  but  I'll 
loan  you  the  money." 

A  few  minutes  later  we  were  on  the  inside  of  the 
palace  of  pleasure,  whistling  with  the  other  boys,  and 
demanding  that  the  circus  men  appear,  for  the  per 
formance  had  not  yet  commenced.  But  when  it  did 
begin,  it  was  all  we  expected,  and  more.  It  was 
—  14—. 


DOCTOR    GILKERSON 


Miles  Orton's  circus,  I  remember,  and  the  clown  was 
a  merry  fellow  called  Doctor  Gilkerson. 

Delight  succeeded  delight  for  an  hour,  when  the 
proceedings  were  interrupted  by  a  drunken  man.  We 
didn't  know  him;  there  was  only  one  drunkard,  Fin 
Wilkerson,  in  our  neighbourhood.  We  supposed  the 
new  drunkard  had  wandered  into  town  from  some 
other  neighbourhood,  owing  to  the  circus,  and  were 
in  sympathy  with  the  ring  master,  who  attempted  to 
throw  the  man  out.  But  the  man  wouldn't  be  thrown 
out,  and  seemed  determined  to  make  trouble.  He 
said  he  had  known  the  clown,  Doctor  Gilkerson,  when 
they  were  boys,  and  wanted  to  talk  to  him. 

About  this  time  Doctor  Gilkerson  came  in,  and 
said  he  didn't  know  the  dissipated  man.  But  the 
man  insisted,  and  finally  they  patched  up  an  acquaint 
ance.  We  were  disposed  at  first  to  be  annoyed  by 
the  interruption  of  the  stranger,  but  when  Doctor 
Gilkerson  shook  hands  with  him,  and  threw  him  head 
over  heels,  we  roared  with  laughter. 

It  seemed  Doctor  Gilkerson  had  known  the  fellow 
very  well;  they  had  gone  to  school  together  as  boys, 
somewhere,  and  after  they  had  talked  awhile,  Doctor 
Gilkerson  asked: 

"By-the-way,  what  has  become  of  old  Howe,  who 
used  to  teach  school  down  there?" 

"Why,"  replied  the  drunken  man,  "don't  you 
know?  He's  running  a  newspaper  about  the  size  of 
—  15  — 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

a  postage  stamp  here,  and  has  become  so  good  that 
he  won't  print  circus  advertisements." 

It  was  the  first  joke  on  a  citizen  ever  heard  in  a 
show  in  the  town,  and  the  people  almost  suffocated 
with  merriment,  they  were  so  pleased.  The  show  was 
brought  to  a  standstill  by  the  merriment  of  the  people 
over  the  joke  on  the  editor,  and  Jim  and  I  were 
amused,  too;  we  were  getting  something  to  offset  the 
whipping  we  expected  later. 

At  last  the  people  were  satisfied  with  the  joke  on 
the  editor,  and  we  thought  the  performance  would  be 
resumed.  But  the  clown's  friend  still  insisted  on  be 
ing  sociable  with  the  show  people,  and  there  were 
cries  of  "Put  him  out!"  But  the  man  wouldn't  go 
out,  and  wanted  to  ride  a  horse  that  stood  in  the  ring. 
I  had  been  thinking  I  could  ride  it,  as  the  horse  had 
a  big  flat  pad  on  its  back.  Doctor  Gilkerson  was  in 
favour  of  letting  the  intruder  ride,  but  the  ring  mas 
ter  said  he  would  kill  himself. 

"All  right,"  said  the  merry  man,  "let  him  kill  him 
self.  That's  a  good  way  to  get  rid  of  him." 

It  was  finally  agreed  to  let  the  stranger  try,  and 
away  went  the  horse  and  the  band,  with  the  drunken 
man  on  the  horse's  back.  It  was  tremendously  ex 
citing;  the  man  reeled  and  staggered  a  good  deal,  and 
the  people  in  the  audience  were  mightily  pleased  that 
a  man  from  the  country,  and  drunk  at  that,  could  do 
it. 

—  16  — 


DOCTOR    G ILKERSON 


Then  the  man  managed  to  stand  on  his  feet,  and 
take  off  his  coat.  This  was  exciting;  but  a  dreadful 
thing  happened  at  that  time:  the  man  being  intoxi 
cated,  and  not  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  began 
taking  off  his  pants !  Much  to  my  surprise,  the  circus 
men  did  not  stop  him,  and  before  we  all  died  of 
mortification,  the  man  got  his  pants  off,  and  turned  out 
to  be  a  circus  rider  in  tights. 

We  felt  mighty  cheap  when  we  realized  we  had  been 
beautifully  fooled,  but  we  enjoyed  that,  too,  along 
with  the  joke  on  the  editor,  and  everybody  had  a  good 
time. 

But  at  last  the  show  was  over,  and  Jim  and  I  hung 
around  an  hour  or  more,  dreading  to  go  home;  we 
knew  what  was  coming  to  us.  There  was  a  sideshow, 
and  the  barker  was  busy  while  the  main  tent  was 
being  torn  down.  I  wanted  to  see  the  sideshow,  but 
had  no  money,  and  finally  thought  of  a  scheme:  I 
had  heard  that  if  a  printer  displayed  his  rule  to  the 
doorkeeper  of  a  show,  the  doorkeeper  would  let  him 
in  free.  I  tried  it,  and  the  doorkeeper  in  an  amused 
way,  looked  at  me,  laughed,  and  said: 

"Well,  it's  all  right!     Go  on  in!" 

Probably  he  had  been  a  printer's  devil  himself; 
anyway,  he  let  me  in.  He  tried  to  stop  Jim,  who 
hadn't  his  rule  with  him,  but  I  said: 

"That's  all  right;  he  has  one,  but  left  it  at 
home," 

—  17  — 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

So  Jim  got  in  free,  too,  and  I  felt  mighty  important. 
The  sideshow  didn't  amount  to  much;  it  was  nothing 
more  than  a  lot  of  stereopticon  views  of  the  war,  then 
going  on,  and  we  were  soon  confronted  with  the  neces 
sity  of  going  home,  and  taking  our  whipping.  On 
the  way,  I  got  into  a  row  with  a  boy  belonging  to  the 
circus,  and  he  pushed  me,  and  I  pushed  as  hard  as  he 
did,  and  said  if  he  wanted  any  more,  to  come  on. 
Jim  thought  I  was  a  tremendous  dare  devil.  Jim 
was  older  than  I,  but  he  always  followed  me  every 
where  ;  had  I  stirred  up  a  fight  with  the  circus  men,  he 
would  have  followed  me,  and  done  the  best  he  could, 
but  he  couldn't  have  done  much,  as  he  was  always  a 
weakly  boy. 

The  last  wagon  drove  away  about  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  then  there  was  nothing  left  for  us 
but  to  go  home.  So  we  sneaked  in  at  the  kitchen 
door;  we  imagined  mother  would  leave  that  open  for 
us,  and  found  she  had.  After  entering  the  kitchen, 
there  was  a  door  leading  into  the  sitting  room,  and 
then  a  stairway  leading  up  to  our  room.  We  had 
gone  around  the  house,  and  noted  a  light  in  the  sit 
ting  room;  that's  where  we  expected  trouble.  After 
entering  the  kitchen,  we  tried  the  knob  of  the  sitting 
room  door,  and  attempted  to  turn  it  quietly.  Ever 
notice  how  a  door  knob  squeaks  when  you  try  to  turn 
it  quietly?  That  door  knob  squeaked,  and  when  we 
turned  it,  opened  the  door,  and  went  into  the  sitting 
—  18  — 


DOCTOR    GILKERSON 


room,  there  sat  the  editor,  waiting  for  us.  I  went  in 
first,  and  Jim  sneaked  in  behind  me. 

"Well,"  father  said,  "you've  been  to  the  circus?" 

There  was  no  use  trying  to  deceive  him ;  I  was  will 
ing  to  try,  but  knew  it  was  impossible,  so  I  replied, 
meekly : 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  thought  awhile,  as  though  trying  to  decide  just 
how  hard  he  would  whip  us,  and  finally  inquired: 

"How  did  you  like  it?"      , 

I  was  too  wise  a  boy  to  be  enthusiastic,  under  the 
circumstances,  so  I  replied: 

"0,  I  didn't  think  it  amounted  to  much."  (I  did, 
though;  it  was  the  very  best  show  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life.) 

For  some  reason  the  editor  didn't  grab  us,  and  be 
gin  the  punishment  we  expected,  and  he  had  no 
switch. 

"Did  they  say  anything  about  me?"  he  asked. 

I  hadn't  thought  of  that  before,  but  evidently  he 
had  been  expecting  an  attack.  I  repeated  what  the 
clown  had  said,  making  it  as  mild  as  possible. 

"How  did  the  people  take  it?"  he  asked  again. 

Then  I  had  an  idea;  so  I  replied  with  animation: 

"Well,  sir,  you  should  have  been  there,  and  seen 

how  the  people  took  it!     Bill  Hillman,  the  sheriff, 

walked  down  to  the  ring,  and  shook  his  fist  at  the 

clown,  and  said  the  people  wouldn't  stand  for  low 

—  19  — 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

circus  people  abusing  a  prominent  man  like  you. 
And  Mr.  Cuddy,  the  banker,  he  walked  down  to  the 
ring,  too,  and  told  the  circus  men  what  he  thought  of 
them.  He  said  you  were  one  of  the  most  useful  men 
in  this  town,  and  that  people  looked  up  to  you,  and 
that  they  didn't  want  to  hear  any  more  of  that." 

The  editor  was  evidently  pleased;  still  he  delayed 
the  whipping. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  after  thinking  awhile, 
"hurry  up  to  bed.  We've  a  big  day's  work  ahead  of 


us  tomorrow." 


When  we  got  into  bed,  we  chuckled  softly,  and  Jim 
nudged  me  with  his  elbow,  and  said  I  was  certainly 
the  boldest,  wisest  boy  the  country  ever  produced. 

And  we  paid  back  Mr.  McCurry  next  day,  with 
ducks  we  stole  from  mother,  and  later  we  fixed  it  all 
right  with  her:  she  never  was  hard  on  us  as  father 
was.  When  we  told  her  how  we  fooled  father,  she 
said  it  was  a  shame,  but  we  caught  her  laughing  about 
it  afterwards. 


—  20  — 


JIM     AND     DAN     AYRES 

So  little  that  is  really  exciting  or  worth  while  has 
happened  in  my  life  that  I  am  greatly  interested  in 
Jim  and  Dan  Ayres,  who  run  the  restaurant.  Some 
thing  really  happened  to  them;  I  never  before  heard 
of  boys  going  anywhere  and  finding  excitement  as 
great  as  they  expected. 

When  they  were  boys  they  lived  on  a  farm  in  Vir 
ginia;  I  have  heard  them  say  their  postoffice  was 
Sudley  Springs.  One  morning  their  father  started 
them  to  Sunday  school,  and  after  they  had  loitered 
along  the  way  a  mile  or  two,  Jim  Ayres  remarked  a 
commotion  over  beyond  what  they  called  the  Big 
Woods. 

"What's  that?"  Jim  asked,  stopping. 

It  was  getting  late  by  this  time,  and  Dan  replied: 

"I  don't  know,  but  we'd  better  hurry  to  Sunday 
school,  or  we'll  get  a  whipping." 

Then  they  hurried  on,  but  the  commotion  over  be 
yond  the  Big  Woods  broke  out  again;  faintly,  but  it 
was  very  unusual,  and  Jim  stopped  and  listened.  He 
had  never  heard  anything  like  it  before,  although  he 
was  a  big  boy  twelve  years  old,  and  after  listening 
awhile,  said: 

"I'm  going  over  there." 

—21— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

"Better  not,"  Dan  said.  "You  know  father  whips 
hard." 

But  the  strange  commotion  continued,  so  Jim  said 
he  was  going,  whipping  or  no  whipping.  Dan  fol 
lowed,  but  kept  saying  they  would  catch  it  when  they 
returned  home. 

They  walked,  and  walked,  and  walked.  All  the 
time  the  commotion  over  beyond  the  Big  Woods  be 
came  more  pronounced,  but  they  couldn't  tell  what  it 
was.  They  forded  streams,  and  were  chased  by 
strange  dogs,  but  kept  on;  from  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  until  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  They 
had  nothing  to  eat,  and  they  didn't  know  that  they 
could  ever  find  their  way  back,  because  they  were  in 
a  country  strange  to  them.  But  they  kept  on,  and  a 
little  after  three  o'clock,  as  a  reward  for  their  perse 
verance,  they  walked  into  the  battle  of  Bull  Run. 


—22— 


GEORGE     COULTER 

Although  I  have  always  worked  as  an  editor  and 
printer,  it  has  been  in  country  printing  offices,  and  I 
would  know  no  more  about  working  on  a  city  news 
paper  than  I  know  about  building  or  repairing  tele 
phone  lines.  In  the  country  printing  offices  we  do 
everything:  reporting,  editing,  soliciting,  job  work, 
writing  cards  of  thanks,  making  rollers  of  glue  and 
molasses,  and  running  the  engine  or  press  on  oc 
casion.  All  these  things  I  have  done,  as  proprietor, 
devil  and  editor,  until  I  can  almost  do  them  with  my 
eyes  shut. 

But  one  day  a  real  Journalist  drifted  into  the  coun 
try  newspaper  office  where  I  was  editor  and  owner. 
He  was  a  specialist;  a  real  live  wire,  and  had  worked 
in  a  big  town.  His  name  was  George  Coulter,  and  his 
specialty  was  the  subscription  department.  He  was 
also  a  writer;  indeed,  he  gave  me  to  understand  that 
when  he  worked  in  Denver,  on  the  Tribune,  there  was 
some  question  as  to  whether  George  Coulter  or  Eugene 
Field  would  finally  become  noted.  But  George  Coul 
ter  finally  preferred  the  Business  End,  and  as  our 
subscription  list  needed  help,  we  put  him  on.  He 
soon  convinced  me  that  our  way  was  old-fashioned  and 
ineffective,  which  I  had  long  suspected,  and  he  at 
—23— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

once  introduced  his  new  ideas,  although  we  never 
noticed  much  change. 

Coulter  was  a  little  man,  and  there  were  wide 
spaces  between  his  front  teeth.  His  health  was  never 
very  good,  and  as  he  was  thin  as  well  as  short,  his 
head  was  so  small  that  the  bows  of  the  man-size  spec 
tacles  he  wore  wrapped  twice  around  his  ears.  It 
developed  that  the  other  employes,  who  had  never 
had  experience  in  a  big  town,  and  had  drifted  into 
the  front  office  from  the  press  room  or  composing 
room,  were  as  good  as  Coulter,  but  we  all  rather  liked 
him,  and  as  his  pay  didn't  amount  to  much,  kept  him. 

Soon  after  George  Coulter's  arrival  we  met  his 
wife;  a  tall,  stout  woman  probably  sixty-five  years 
old.  Coulter  was  not  to  exceed  thirty,  and  really 
didn't  amount  to  much,  but  I  have  never  known  an 
other  husband  to  be  admired  as  he  was.  Mrs. 
Coulter  was  a  doctor,  and  had  been  married  before;  I 
heard  of  two  previous  husbands,  both  of  them  doctors. 
Whether  she  had  had  others  I  do  not  know,  but  she 
worshipped  George,  and  believed  him  to  be  a  great 
journalist.  She  occasionally  irritated  me  by  giving 
the  impression  that  the  prosperity  of  the  paper  was 
due  to  her  husband's  efforts,  but  she  was  a  kindly  old 
woman,  and  I  let  her  believe  that  Coulter  did  what 
the  rest  of  us  were  doing,  and  had  been  doing  many 
years  before  he  came. 

I  discovered,  also,  that  the  domestic  relations  of 
—24— 


GEORGE     COULTER 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coulter  were  not  always  happy. 
Coulter  frequently  went  on  the  road  to  solicit  sub 
scriptions;  by  going  into  a  territory  where  the  paper 
was  not  very  well  known,  he  sometimes  did  very  well, 
and  was  useful  in  a  way;  but  I  discovered  that  before 
starting  on  these  trips,  he  usually  had  a  difference 
with  his  wife. 

And  his  wife  was  so  distressed  about  it!  She 
seemed  to  be  to  blame;  anyway,  she  took  the  blame, 
and  often  came  to  me,  and  begged  me  to  coax  Coulter 
to  return  to  her.  He  was  working  on  a  commission 
basis,  and  we  never  paid  much  attention  when  he 
came  and  went ;  we  never  really  cared  whether  he  ever 
came  back.  But  his  wife  loved  him  sincerely,  and, 
as  she  had  money,  earned  in  practising  a  profession 
learned  from  her  other  husbands,  she  brought  money 
to  me,  and  asked  me  to  send  it  to  Coulter,  that  he 
might  come  home.  She  feared  he  might  be  ill  on 
the  road,  and  poor,  and,  as  he  was  very  sensitive,  she 
felt  that  maybe  he  was  staying  away  from  her  be 
cause  he  hadn't  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  So  I  often  sent 
him  his  wife's  money,  when  there  was  none  coming 
to  him  from  the  office,  and  he  would  come  back,  and 
loiter  around  in  his  listless  way  a  few  weeks,  and  then 
disappear  again. 

Coulter  was  really  a  disagreeable  problem  to  us, 
but  he  was  inoffensive,  and  drifted  along  from  month 
to  month.  He  didn't  act  as  though  he  felt  superior 
—25— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

to  his  associates  at  the  office,  but  he  certainly  felt 
superior  to  his  stout  wife,  and  I  often  wondered  she 
didn't  make  him  behave  himself,  as  she  was  really 
quite  a  woman,  and  had  a  good  practice. 

When  Coulter  returned  from  one  of  his  long  trips, 
I  noticed  he  didn't  look  very  well.  After  appearing 
at  the  office  every  day  for  a  week  or  two,  he  disap 
peared,  but  I  supposed  he  was  mad  at  his  wife  again 
about  something,  and  had  gone  away.  A  week  later, 
however,  I  heard  he  was  ill.  I  had  a  distinct 
consciousness  that  I  should  go  to  see  him,  but  was 
very  busy,  and  kept  putting  it  off  from  day  to  day. 

One  morning,  a  strange  little  girl  appeared  at  the 
counter  with  a  note  for  me.  Somehow  I  had  a  feeling 
that  the  note  was  from  Mrs.  Coulter,  and  that  her 
husband  was  worse.  Then  I  felt  guilty  because  I 
had  not  called  to  see  her  before. 

It  turned  out  as  I  feared;  Coulter  was  not  only 
worse:  he  was  dead,  and  Mrs.  Coulter  asked  in  the 
note  that  I  come  to  see  her.  Feeling  guilty,  I  went 
at  once. 

She  lived  over  the  jewellery  store,  on  the  main 
street,  and  when  I  climbed  the  stairway  softly,  and 
rapped  at  the  door,  was  admitted. 

Mrs.  Coulter  was  in  a  pitiful  state  of  grief,  and  I 

was  thoroughly   ashamed   of  myself  because   I  had 

neglected  her.     It  also  developed  that  she  was  almost 

in  need;  she  had  been  unable  to  practise  during  her 

—26— 


GEORGE     COULTER 


husband's  illness,  and  asked  if  I  would  not  help  her 
provide  a  coffin  in  which  to  send  the  body  to  a  brother 
who  lived  in  another  town.  1  cheerfully  agreed  to  do 
this,  and  comforted  the  distressed  widow  as  much  as  I 
could. 

The  body  was  lying  in  the  room,  on  a  board  sup 
ported  by  two  chairs,  and  I  thought  it  no  more  than 
decent  to  look  at  poor  George,  but  when  I  raised  the 
sheet  with  which  his  body  was  covered,  I  encountered 
his  feet,  instead  of  his  face,  and  was  compelled  to 
try  again. 

Mrs.  Coulter  told  me  what  a  wonderful  man  her 
husband  was;  how  journalism  had  been  robbed  of 
one  of  its  ornaments,  and  how  he  was  just  getting 
started  in  the  world  when  death  cut  him  off.  I  ac 
cepted  all  she  said,  as  people  do  under  such  circum 
stances,  and  added  a  comforting  word  myself,  al 
though  the  actual  facts  were  that  Coulter,  during  his 
lifetime,  had  not  amounted  to  much. 

Then  I  went  away  to  make  the  funeral  arrange 
ments.  Arriving  at  the  undertaker's,  I  felt  so 
ashamed  because  of  my  neglect  of  Coulter  that  I 
bought  a  very  good  casket,  and  resolved  to  have  a 
choir,  and  a  funeral  service.  Mrs.  Coulter  intended 
leaving  with  the  body  on  a  late  afternoon  train,  so  I 
had  plenty  of  time,  and  went  at  once  to  the  most 
popular  preacher  in  town.  When  I  told  him  how 
friendless  Coulter  was,  the  preacher  readily  agreed 
—27— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

to  officiate  at  the  funeral,  and  helped  me  make  up  a 
quartet  to  sing  appropriate  hymns.  The  soprano  and 
contralto  hadn't  much  to  do,  and  as  they  were  friends 
of  mine  I  had  no  trouble  in  securing  their  consent  by 
telephone. 

I  had  some  trouble  with  the  tenor  and  bass.  Both 
of  them  worked  for  employers  who  were  often  both 
ered  by  requests  to  let  the  singers  off,  but  I  called  on 
these  employers,  and,  by  telling  them  what  a  good 
fellow  Coulter  was,  they  not  only  agreed  to  let  the 
singers  off,  but  promised  to  attend  the  services  I  had 
arranged. 

Then  I  went  to  work  on  the  pall  bearers.  I  picked 
out  five  of  the  most  prominent  men  in  town,  de 
termined  that  Mrs.  Coulter  should  be  satisfied  with 
the  funeral  I  had  arranged,  however  much  she  re 
sented  my  neglect  to  call  during  her  husband's  illness. 
The  men  I  picked  out  as  pall  bearers  were  very  kind, 
and  readily  consented  to  act,  when  I  explained  the 
case;  men  are  always  very  nice  about  such  things. 

The  funeral  was  to  occur  at  5  P.  M.,  and  the  men 
who  were  to  act  with  me  as  pall  bearers  were  in 
structed  to  meet  at  that  hour  at  the  foot  of  the  stair 
way  leading  up  to  Mrs.  Coulter's  rooms  over  the 
jewellery  store.  They  were  all  there  promptly,  except 
Balie  Waggener,  the  lawyer.  When  he  didn't  come 
I  recalled  that  he  was  always  promising  to  deliver 
public  addresses,  and  then  failing  to  appear,  but  I 
—28— 


GEORGE     COULTER 


hadn't  time  to  be  indignant,  for  the  hour  of  the  fu 
neral  had  arrived,  and  we  lacked  a  pall  bearer.  The 
bankers  I  had  selected  to  assist  were  also  indignant 
because  of  Balie's  failure  to  appear,  and  said  that 
was  the  way  he  did  in  everything.  But  just  then  Sam 
Kelsey,  the  mayor,  came  along.  I  wondered  I  had 
forgotten  the  mayor,  so  we  grabbed  him,  and  ex 
plained  that  we  needed  him.  He  had  just  lit  a  fifteen 
cent  cigar,  but  threw  it  away,  after  taking  a  few  re 
gretful  puffs,  and  we  hurried  him  up  the  stairs  ahead 
of  us. 

Sam  Kelsey,  the  mayor,  was  a  noted  lodgeman  and 
old  soldier,  and  knew  just  what  to  do  at  a  funeral,  so 
he  at  once  took  charge.  All  the  pall  bearers,  except 
the  mayor,  sent  flowers,  as  had  the  two  employers  who 
had  excused  the  tenor  and  bass  to  sing  in  the  quartet. 
The  members  of  the  quartet  were  present,  as  was  the 
preacher,  and  two  girls  from  the  office.  Mrs.  Coulter 
had  always  believed  the  girls  at  the  office  flirted  with 
her  husband,  although  they  really  abominated  him, 
but  in  the  presence  of  death  she  forgave  all,  and  had 
her  arms  about  one  of  them. 

Sam  Kelsey,  being  experienced,  saw  that  we  were 
ready  to  begin,  so  he  made  a  signal  to  the  members  of 
the  quartet,  and  they  sang  two  beautiful  selections. 
It  was  really  very  impressive,  and  Mrs.  Coulter  shook 
with  emotion;  indeed,  all  of  us  were  moved.  Mrs. 
Coulter  evidently  thought  the  leading  men  of  the  town 
—29— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

were  paying  George  the  attention  he  deserved,  now 
that  he  was  dead,  and  her  grief  greatly  moved  me, 
for  she  was  really  fond  of  her  husband.  Sam  Kelsey 
tiptoed  over  to  Mrs.  Coulter  during  the  singing,  and 
spoke  a  comforting  word  to  her,  and  if  any  of  the 
pall  bearers  did  not  know  how  to  act,  he  gently  and 
quietly  put  them  right. 

The  preacher  spoke  impressively  of  the  dead;  I  had 
given  him  an  idea  of  the  life  of  the  deceased,  making 
it  as  favourable  as  possible;  and,  after  the  quartet 
sang  another  hymn,  Sam  Kelsey,  the  mayor,  knew  it 
was  time  to  carry  the  casket  down  the  stairway  to  the 
hearse,  which  had  backed  up  to  the  sidewalk.  So 
he  arranged  the  pall  bearers  according  to  size,  and,  at 
a  signal  from  him,  we  picked  up  the  casket,  and 
carried  it  reverently  down  the  stairs,  depositing  it  in 
the  hearse. 

My  idea  was  to  cut  across  lots,  meet  the  hearse  at 
the  depot,  and  put  the  casket  in  the  baggage  car,  but 
Sam  Kelsey  wouldn't  have  it  that  way :  he  lined  us  up 
on  either  side  of  the  hearse,  three  on  a  side,  and, 
after  squinting  along  the  lines,  to  see  that  we  were 
properly  placed,  he  gave  a  signal  to  the  driver  of 
the  hearse,  and  we  walked  with  measured  tread  to 
the  depot. 

We  had  on  white  cotton  gloves,  much  too  long  for 
us  in  every  finger,  but  altogether  we  made  a  rather 
impressive  procession,  with  Mrs.  Coulter  and  the 
—30— 


GEORGE     COULTER 


two   girls  from  the  office  following   in   a   carriage. 

Arriving  at  the  depot,  we  placed  the  casket  on  a 
truck,  and  wheeled  it  to  the  baggage  car.  It  was  a 
very  hot  day,  but  Sam  Kelsey  made  us  remove  our 
hats  while  taking  the  casket  from  the  hearse  to  the 
baggage  car.  The  casket  was  very  heavy,  and  it 
was  hard  work  getting  it  into  the  car,  but  finally  this 
was  accomplished,  and  the  flowers  placed  on  the 
casket.  Then  we  stood  around  in  solemn  silence 
for  a  moment,  before  departing,  and  Sam  Kelsey, 
with  his  hat  still  off,  wiped  a  lot  of  perspiration  from 
the  top  of  his  bald  head,  and,  leaning  over  to  me, 
whispered  in  a  tender,  sympathetic  way: 

"Who  was  he?" 


—31— 


SAMMY     HEMINGWAY 

Among  the  children  in  the  school  I  attended  in  the 
country  when  a  boy  were  the  five  Hemingway  boys, 
particular  friends  of  mine.  Their  father  was  killed 
at  Shiloh,  and  when  I  went  to  their  house  to  stay  all 
night  and  found  their  mother  in  bad  humour  I  forgave 
it,  as  people  said  the  death  of  Mr.  Hemingway  had 
ruined  her  disposition.  Besides,  she  had  seven  chil 
dren,  and  only  one  of  them  was  a  girl  and  she  was 
married  and  lived  in  a  distant  state. 

One  of  the  Hemingway  boys,  Sammy,  the  oldest 
one,  didn't  go  to  school.  He  was  simple-minded, 
owing  to  the  doctor  giving  him  strong  medicine  when 
he  was  a  baby,  it  was  said,  so  he  remained  at  home 
and  made  boots.  His  father  had  been  a  bootmaker 
before  he  went  away  to  the  war,  and  Sammy  had  as 
sisted  him.  When  the  father  went  away  it  was  dis 
covered  that  Sammy  knew  the  trade,  and  after  that  he 
made  the  boots  for  the  men  and  boys  in  the  neigh 
bourhood.  Most  of  the  men  and  boys  in  our  section 
wore  rough  boots  made  by  Sammy  Hemingway. 
When  a  man  became  a  little  more  prosperous  than 
the  others  he  ordered  kip  boots,  with  red  tops,  and 
Sammy  Hemingway  made  these  too. 

When  I  needed  new  boots  I  was  sent  to  Mrs.  Hem- 
—32— 


SAMMY    HEMINGWAY 


ingway's,  where  Sammy  measured  me;  when  my  old 
boots  needed  repairing  I  was  also  sent  there,  where  I 
took  off  my  boots  and  sat  in  the  room  with  Sammy 
until  the  repairs  were  completed. 

I  therefore  knew  Sammy  pretty  well,  but  never 
knew  his  mother  very  well  until  I  began  going  there 
to  stay  all  night  with  her  boys,  two  of  whom  were 
near  my  own  age.  When  we  arrived  from  school  we 
always  found  Mrs.  Hemingway  fretful,  but  the  boys 
would  whisper  to  me  that  she  would  be  all  right  after 
a  while,  so  we  kept  out  of  her  way  and  did  the  evening 
chores. 

Sammy  was  twenty-five  years  old,  and  had  black- 
whiskers  all  over  his  face,  which  his  mother  trimmed 
occasionally.  She  also  cut  his  hair  and  made  his 
clothes.  When  supper  was  ready  Mrs.  Hemingway 
would  put  food  on  his  plate,  and  he  would  eat  it,  but 
he  never  asked  for  more.  Indeed,  he  couldn't  talk 
very  well,  and  it  was  necessary  to  lead  him  to  the 
table,  and  to  his  room  upstairs. 

When  there  were  no  boots  to  make  or  shoes  to 
mend  Sammy  was  led  to  his  room  and  locked  up. 
When  a  customer  came  his  mother  went  for  Sammy, 
and  he  seemed  to  understand  what  was  wanted ;  he  had 
learned  it  from  his  father,  and  measured,  and  pegged, 
and  sewed,  until  the  work  was  done.  Then  he  was 
locked  up  again. 

But  though  Mrs.  Hemingway  was  always  in  a  bad 
—33— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

humour  when  I  went  there  to  stay  all  night  she  gradu 
ally  became  better  natured  toward  evening;  and  when 
all  the  work  was  done  she  would  sit  about  the  fire 
with  us  and  tell  about  the  people  she  used  to  know  in 
Indiana,  where  she  came  from.  By  eight  o'clock  she 
was  as  good-natured  a  woman  as  I  ever  knew,  and 
said  she  was  glad  I  came,  and  insisted  mat  I  come 
often. 

Sammy  never  paid  any  attention  to  me;  when  we 
children  played  in  the  evening  he  pegged  away  at 
his  bootmaking  without  looking  up.  His  workbench 
was  in  the  main  sitting  room  at  one  end  of  the  fire 
place,  and  we  paid  no  more  attention  to  Sammy  than 
he  paid  to  us.  If  he  ran  out  of  work  he  would  go 
over  to  his  mother,  tug  at  her  dress  and  indicate  that 
he  was  ready  to  go  to  his  room  and  be  locked  up. 
Occasionally  at  night  when  we  children  went  upstairs 
to  bed  Mrs.  Hemingway  would  give  us  the  key  to 
Sammy's  room,  that  we  might  go  in  and  see  that  he 
was  all  right.  If  he  were  awake  we  found  him  con 
vulsively  working  his  hands,  as  he  always  did  when 
not  mending  or  making  boots;  if  he  were  asleep  his 
right  hand  was  always  lying  across  his  forehead,  as 
though  he  had  a  pain  there.  If  Sammy  ever  dis 
turbed  any  one  it  was  his  mother,  for  no  one  else  ever 
took  any  care  of  him  or  knew  much  about  him. 

One  day  when  I  asked  permission  of  my  mother 
to  stay  all  night  with  the  Hemingway  boys  she  refused, 
—34— 


SAMMY    HEMINGWAY 


saying  Mrs.  Hemingway  was  poorly.  After  that  Mrs. 
Hemingway's  sickness  became  the  topic  of  conversa 
tion  for  months,  and  I  learned  that  her  f retfulness  was 
due  to  the  fact  that  she  had  long  been  a  sufferer  from 
some  serious  malady.  She  grew  gradually  worse, 
and  had  no  one  to  help  her.  The  neighbour  women 
took  turn  about  calling  on  her  every  day,  straighten 
ing  up,  but  finally  it  became  apparent  that  some  one 
must  remain  with  her  all  the  time,  which  the  women 
could  ill  afford  as  they  had  big  families  of  their  own. 

About  this  time  I  heard  that  Mrs.  Hemingway's 
married  daughter  in  Indiana  had  been  sent  for.  It 
was  the  custom  when  any  one  went  to  town  to  bring 
home  mail  for  the  entire  neighbourhood,  which  was 
distributed  by  the  children.  After  that  when  we  met 
any  one  coming  from  town  we  asked  if  Mrs.  Heming 
way's  letter  had  come,  for  Mrs.  Hemingway  was  grow 
ing  weaker  and  greatly  needed  her  daughter. 

At  last  the  long-expected  letter  came;  father 
brought  it  from  town  one  afternoon,  and  while  I 
hurried  over  to  her  house  with  it  the  other  children 
went  to  the  houses  of  other  neighbours,  and  told  them 
the  good  news — that  Mrs.  Hemingway's  letter  had  at 
last  arrived. 

When    I    arrived    at   the    Hemingway    house    and 

knocked,  Sammy  was  sitting  near  the  door  making 

boots,  but  paid  no  attention  to  me,  but  his  mother,  who 

was  lying  in  a  bed  in  the  same  room,  told  me  to  come 

—35— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

in.  She  looked  dreadfully  pale  and  weak,  and  asked 
me  to  read  the  letter.  It  was  full  of  affection,  and 
the  writer  said  she  would  start  three  days  later.  Mrs. 
Hemingway  told  me  to  carry  the  letter  at  once  to  my 
father,  which  I  did,  and  he  decided  that  it  would 
be  necessary  for  him  to  start  for  the  railroad  that 
night  in  order  to  meet  her. 

When  I  took  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Hemingway's  I 
noticed  that  Sammy,  though  he  was  simpleminded, 
seemed  to  realize  that  something  was  wrong  with  his 
mother.  My  bringing  the  letter  excited  him,  and  he 
quit  his  bootmaking  and  went  over  to  his  mother  and 
put  his  hand  on  her  forehead,  and  moaned  like  a  child 
in  pain.  When  he  returned  to  his  chair  he  swayed 
to  and  fro  and  forgot  about  his  bootmaking  for  a 
time,  and  I  was  compelled  to  hurry  out  of  the  room, 
to  keep  from  crying,  it  was  so  pitiful. 

After  that  we  watched  the  road  for  signs  of  the 
visitor,  for  Mrs.  Hemingway  was  very  bad  off;  but 
when  the  visitor  did  arrive,  bringing  two  little  girls 
with  her,  things  seemed  to  go  better  at  the  Heming 
ways'.  The  daughter,  whose  name  was  Latimer, 
straightened  things  out,  and  made  her  mother  more 
comfortable.  Mrs.  Latimer  was  one  of  the  nicest 
women  we  had  ever  seen,  and  the  manner  in  which 
she  was  up  with  her' mother  night  and  day  won  us  all. 

After  Mrs.  Latimer  had  been  there  a  month  people 
began  to  wonder  how  Mr.  Latimer  took  it;  there  were 
—36— 


SAMMY    HEMINGWAY 


predictions  that  he  wouldn't  like  doing  the  milking 
and  the  cooking,  and  one  day  when  Mr.  Latimer  ar 
rived  we  thought  he  had  come  after  his  wife,  and  to 
make  a  fuss.  But  he  hadn't;  he  had  come  to  help  his 
wife  and  Mrs.  Hemingway.  We  heard  of  his  going 
to  town  after  delicacies  for  Mrs.  Hemingway,  and  on 
returning  from  these  trips  he  always  brought  things 
for  the  Hemingway  boys  too. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  I  was  sent  over  to  ask  how 
Mrs.  Hemingway  was.  She  wasn't  any  better;  in 
fact  she  was  a  great  deal  worse,  and  didn't  know  me. 
Even  Sammy  had  noticed  some  great  change,  for  while 
I  was  there  he  rose  from  his  bench,  went  over  to  his 
mother's  bed  and  tried  to  induce  her  to  get  up. 

Mr.  Latimer  was  in  the  room,  and  his  patience  and 
gentleness  greatly  attracted  me;  I  had  not  been  ac 
customed  to  that  sort  of  thing.  His  fondness  for  his 
wife  and  her  fondness  for  him  also  surprised  me.  I 
was  sent  to  Mrs.  Hemingway's  many  times  after  that 
to  inquire  how  she  was,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Latimer's 
devotion  to  each  other  was  a  wonderful  thing;  I  had 
never  before  seen  wives  and  husbands  who  seemed  to 
think  a  great  deal  of  each  other. 

One  night  word  came  to  our  house  that  Mrs.  Hem 
ingway  was  dead,  and  I  went  with  my  father  to  ring 
the  bell.  It  was  the  custom  in  our  neighbourhood  to 
toll  the  church  bell  when  there  was  a  death,  one  ring 
for  each  year  of  the  deceased's  age.  I  sat  shivering 
—37— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

in  the  church  until  my  father  tolled  the  bell  fifty- 
seven  times,  and  then  we  went  home.  As  we  walked 
along  through  the  darkness,  returning  home  from 
tolling  the  bell,  my  father  told  me  that  one  day  during 
Mrs.  Hemingway's  illness  she  asked  that  all  leave  the 
room  except  Mr.  Latimer.  When  she  was  alone  with 
him  she  asked  as  her  dying  request  that  he  be  good 
to  Sammy.  And  Mr.  Latimer  promised,  and  my 
father  seemed  much  moved  by  the  incident,  as  I 
think  all  the  people  in  the  neighbourhood  were.  The 
gentleness  and  kindness  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Latimer  did 
us  all  good. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  Mr.  Latimer  announced 
that  he  intended  taking  the  family  back  to  his  home  in 
Indiana.  Mrs.  Hemingway  had  requested  it,  and  he 
thought  it  was  as  little  as  he  could  do;  so  on  the 
fourth  morning  after  the  death  they  started,  Sammy 
sitting  on  his  shoemaker's  bench  and  the  boys  climbing 
all  over  the  wagon. 

And  then,  after  saying  good-bye,  about  the  only 
good  husband  ever  known  in  our  neighbourhood  drove 
away. 


—38— 


DAVIS     STRAIGHT 

When  I  was  ten  years  old  my  Uncle  Joe  came  to 
our  house  on  his  wedding  journey,  driving  a  pair  of 
little  mules  to  a  farm  wagon ;  and  it  was  arranged  that 
I  should  accompany  him  home  and  visit  my  grand 
mother,  who  lived  five  miles  from  his  house,  in  the 
Grand  River  hills. 

Uncle  Joe's  bride  didn't  like  me  very  well,  and  I 
didn't  stay  long  at  their  house;  Uncle  Joe  soon  took 
me  over  to  my  grandmother's,  who  had  a  son  only 
a  little  older  than  I  was;  a  boy  named  Nate,  a  noted 
hunter,  for  he  had  killed  wild  turkeys. 

Nate  never  did  do  much  but  hunt,  but  I  was  kept 
pretty  busy  at  home  and  greatly  enjoyed  the  vacation. 
We  went  hunting  every  day,  but  Nate  said  I  had 
brought  him  bad  luck,  for  we  didn't  find  any  turkeys ; 
nor  much  else  except  a  few  squirrels.  We  were  the 
idlest  pair  of  vagabonds  in  that  entire  section,  and  a 
certain  boy  living  in  the  same  neighbourhood  caused 
us  a  good  deal  of  annoyance.  He  was  a  famous  good 
boy  named  Davis  Straight,  and  some  sort  of  a  distant 
relation  of  ours;  but  we  didn't  like  him,  he  was  so 
industrious  and  well-behaved.  We  were  always  be 
ing  told  how  industrious  and  worthy  Davis  Straight 
was,  and  wherever  we  went  we  met  him  on  the  road 
—39— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

driving  a  wagon  loaded  with  wood;  and  every  time 
we  met  him  he  had  a  turkey  or  wild  goose  on  the 
wagon.  He  had  run  into  the  game  accidentally,  while 
at  work;  we  couldn't  do  it,  hunt  as  hard  as  we  would. 

But  one  day  we  sneaked  up  to  a  little  lake  in  the 
Grand  River  bottom,  and  there  sat  a  wild  goose  with 
its  head  under  water  poking  round  for  wild  celery.  I 
was  so  anxious  to  get  a  goose  that  I  let  Nate  shoot, 
though  it  was  my  turn.  He  had  an  old  shotgun,  and 
was  a  noted  shot  with  it,  and  while  he  was  taking  aim 
I  thought  as  rapidly  as  they  say  a  drowning  man  does ; 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  the  other  boys,  when  I  re 
turned  home,  that  there  were  two  geese,  and  that  I 
got  them  both. 

Just  then  there  was  a  muffled  report  and  Nate  fell 
over  on  the  ground  with  his  fingers  in  his  mouth;  the 
gun  had  burst,  and  the  goose  flew  away. 

Nate  wasn't  much  hurt,  and  we  started  home,  carry 
ing  the  heavy  gun,  though  there  weren't  enough  gun 
smiths  in  the  world  to  do  anything  with  it;  it  had  burst 
at  the  breach.  We  had  put  in  a  goose-and-turkey 
load,  and  put  in  too  much. 

Of  course  we  met  Davis  Straight  on  the  way  home 
with  a  load  of  wood.  He  had  a  wild  turkey,  which 
he  had  run  into  accidentally  and  shot  without  any 
delay;  otherwise  he  wouldn't  have  stopped.  He  was 
such  a  good  boy  that  he  always  returned  home  when 
expected — or  earlier — ready  to  be  at  something  else, 
—40— 


DAVIS    STRAIGHT 


and  shame  Nate  and  me.  Davis  Straight  was  my 
Aunt  Beckie's  stepson,  and  I  never  could  understand 
how  she  tolerated  him. 

Having  no  gun,  time  didn't  pass  very  rapidly,  and 
Nate  and  I  became  quarrelsome;  indeed  we  came  near 
having  a  fight  one  day.  So  grandmother  said  it  was 
time  for  me  to  go  home. 

It  was  forty  miles  to  where  I  lived  through  an  al 
most  unbroken  country,  but  I  was  mad  at  Nate,  so  I 
struck  out  to  walk  home,  without  bidding  Nate  good 
bye.  Grandmother  said  it  was  a  shame  the  way  we 
acted,  but  Nate  started  it;  I  remember  that. 

I  left  in  the  afternoon,  intending  to  spend  the  night 
at  Uncle  Joe's,  who  lived  five  miles  on  the  way. 
Aunt  Mary  wasn't  very  glad  to  see  me,  though  she  was 
a  bride,  but  I  told  her  she  needn't  worry;  that  I  in 
tended  leaving  at  daylight  next  morning.  Uncle  Joe 
talked  of  taking  me  part  way  in  the  wagon,  saying 
that  it  was  a  shame  for  me  to  walk  home  after  coming 
so  far  to  see  them,  but  Aunt  Mary  soon  put  a  stop 
to  that  talk;  she  seemed  to  run  things  round  that 
house.  Aunt  Mary  was  a  Brassfield,  and  the  Brass- 
fields  thought  a  good  deal  of  themselves ;  I  think  they 
opposed  her  marrying  Uncle  Joe  in  the  first  place. 

I  liked  the  way  she  talked  so  little  that  I  got  up 
at  daylight  and  started  without  eating  any  breakfast. 
Uncle  Joe  was  a  good  deal  exercised  about  my  start 
ing  out  on  foot;  he  always  was  the  best  one  in  the 
—41— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

family.  But  he  couldn't  help  himself;  he  was  afraid 
of  Aunt  Mary,  who  didn't  like  me. 

I  intended  stopping  that  night  at  George  Meek's,  a 
neighbour  of  ours  before  we  moved  to  town.  That 
left  thirty  miles  for  me  to  walk  from  daylight  to 
dark;  but  I  didn't  think  much  of  it — before  I  started 
and  when  I  was  mad  at  Nate.  There  were  only  a 
few  houses  on  the  way,  and  the  road  ran  mostly 
through  prairie. 

About  noon  I  passed  a  house  and  went  in,  asking 
for  a  drink  of  water,  but  really  hoping  they  would 
give  me  something  to  eat.  They  were  just  sitting 
down  to  the  table,  and  the  man  asked  me  to  eat  with 
them. 

I  thought  I  must  be  polite  a  while,  and  said :  "No, 
thank  you." 

Unfortunately  the  man  took  me  at  my  word,  and 
said:  "Well,  of  course,  if  you  don't  want  anything, 
all  right,  but  you're  welcome  to  it." 

I  sat  and  watched  them  eat  a  while,  and  then  went 
out  to  the  bars  and  cried  because  I  was  such  a  fool. 
But  I  had  to  make  it  to  George  Meek's  before  dark, 
as  there  were  panthers  in  the  woods  round  his  place, 
the  big  boys  said;  so  I  started  on  my  weary  way  again. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  I  passed  through  a 

little  town  called  Bancroft,   a  collection   of  half  a 

dozen  houses  and  a  store.     When  I  went  into  the 

store  the  proprietor  was  eating  candied  cherries  out 

—42— 


DAVIS    STRAIGHT 


of  a  jar.  I  was  hungry  but  had  no  money,  and 
would  not  beg.  The  man  dropped  one  of  the  cherries, 
and  I  was  just  about  to  dart  after  it,  when  he  mashed 
it  with  his  foot.  He  was  the  burliest  ruffian  I  ever 
saw. 

The  walk  nearly  killed  me,  and  I  dragged  myself 
into  George  Meek's  house  about  dark.  They  knew 
me  well,  and  were  surprised  when  I  told  them  how 
far  I  had  walked.  They  offered  me  food  but  I 
couldn't  eat  much,  and  went  to  bed,  sick. 

The  next  day  I  had  a  high  fever,  and  my  father 
was  sent  for.  He  came  the  second  day  with  a  horse 
and  buggy,  to  take  me  home.  I  lay  down  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  buggy  on  a  quilt,  and  father  was  disposed 
to  grumble  because  I  had  made  myself  sick. 

When  we  reached  home  mother  was  waiting  at  the 
front  gate. 

"Where's  Ed?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

For  some  reason  father  replied:  "He  was  too  sick 
to  bring  home." 

Mother  turned  toward  the  house  hurriedly,  to  get 
her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  said:  "You  needn't  put 
up  the  horse;  I  am  going  right  back  after  him." 

There  had  never  been  much  affection  in  our  family, 
father  was  so  stern  and  busy,  and  her  saying  that 
made  me  cry.  She  heard  me  sobbing,  and  she  came 
back  and  took  me  into  the  house,  where  I  told  her 
exactly  how  Nate  and  Aunt  Mary  and  grandmother 
had  treated  me. 

—43— 


SAM     HARRIS 

The  smartest  banker  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
it  is  generally  said  round  town,  is  Sam  Harris.  Un 
fortunately  he  has  one  very  bad  habit:  Occasionally 
he  goes  down  to  the  city  and  engages  in  dissipation. 
At  such  times  he  takes  with  him  a  long  pistol  kept  in 
the  bank  in  case  of  burglars,  and  it  is  always  feared 
he  will  shoot  some  one. 

Ordinarily  he  is  a  very  thrifty  man,  locally  noted 
for  getting  all  that  is  coming  to  him ;  and  we  country 
people  talk  a  good  deal  about  that,  too,  as  well  as 
his  occasional  sprees. 

He  has  a  fine  family,  and  when  he  goes  off  on  the 
rampage  his  wife  hurries  to  her  particular  friends  and 
begs  that  they  drop  their  work  and  go  and  look  after 
him.  They  don't  like  to  do  it,  but  they  all  like 
Margaret,  and  usually  consent. 

The  last  time  Sam  gave  way  to  his  weakness  it  was 
Link  MorrilPs  turn  to  go  to  the  city,  look  him  up, 
care  for  him,  and  bring  him  back  safe  to  his  family, 
to  sober  up.  Link  grumbled  a  good  deal  about  going 
and  said  he  couldn't  afford  the  time,  but  he  had 
known  Margaret  since  she  was  a  baby,  almost,  and 
couldn't  resist  her  tearful  appeal. 

So  Link  went  to  the  city,  soon  found  Sam  by  going 


SAM    HARRIS 


to  the  roughest  part  of  town,  and  took  charge  of  him. 

As  they  walked  along  down  near  the  union  depot 
they  passed  an  auction  store  where  cigars  were  being 
sold.  The  auctioneer  was  a  loud-voiced  man,  and 
said  he  proposed  to  open  a  box  of  the  cigars  and  throw 
them  into  the  crowd,  in  order  that  the  gentlemen 
present  might  each  get  one,  smoke  it  and  realize  the 
extra  quality.  The  auctioneer  intimated  very  broadly 
that  the  goods  he  was  offering  had  been  smuggled 
into  the  country  without  paying  duty,  and  that  he  was 
offering  twenty-cent  cigars  for  whatever  they  would 
bring. 

The  talk  about  giving  something  away  attracted 
Sam  Harris'  attention,  in  spite  of  his  condition,  and 
he  went  into  the  auction  room,  Link  following  to  look 
after  him.  Again  the  auctioneer  said  he  would  throw 
a  box  of  the  valuable  cigars  in  the  crowd,  in  order 
that  those  present  might  realize  their  extra  quality. 
Suiting  the  action  to  the  word  he  threw  a  box  into 
the  crowd. 

Immediately  there  was  a  great  scramble ;  those  in  the 
room  went  into  a  heap  on  the  floor,  wrestling  round 
after  the  free  cigars,  and  Link  says  it  was  very  rough. 
Sam  Harris  promptly  engaged  in  the  scuffle  and 
pushed  and  rushed  with  the  roughest  of  the  rough 
men.  Link  says  it  was  the  toughest  bunch  he  ever 
saw. 

The  free  samples  being  disposed  of,  the  auctioneer 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

began  offering  cigars  like  them  for  sale,  and  Link 
and  Sam  went  out.  As  they  walked  on  down  the 
street  trying  to  reach  a  safe  part  of  town  Link  frankly 
told  Sam  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself;  that 
though  he  was  a  great  banker,  a  good  citizen  and  the 
head  of  a  fine  family,  his  friends  were  through  chas 
ing  after  him  when  he  went  on  the  rampage,  and  that 
in  the  future  he  might  depend  on  looking  after  him 
self.  Link  had  long  wanted  to  talk  to  Sam  plainly, 
and  accepted  this  occasion. 

About  this  time  Sam  took  a  cigar  from  his  vest 
pocket  and  lighted  it.  Link  wanted  a  cigar  also,  and 
not  having  one  of  his  own  took  one  from  Sam's  pocket. 
In  doing  so  he  found  all  his  pockets  full,  and  was 
curious  to  know  how  many  he  had  managed  to  get 
in  the  rough  scramble  at  the  auction  store.  He 
counted,  and  found  Sam  had  thirty-two. 

Link  says  if  Sam  hadn't  been  drunk  he  would  have 
got  all  of  them. 


46- 


BART     WHERRY 

Our  people  are  distressed  because  Bart  Wherry,  the 
lawyer,  will  move  to  the  county  seat  and  open  an 
office  there.  We  don't  like  to  lose  a  good  citizen, 
particularly  one  like  Bart  Wherry,  who  has  become 
rather  noted  over  the  state  because  of  his  speeches  in 
conventions  and  at  notable  court  trials. 

So  a  committee  called  on  him  to  see  if  anything 
could  be  done.  It  turned  out  nothing  could  be  done; 
Bart  is  going  away.  He  talked  quite  frankly  to  mem 
bers  of  the  committee.  It  seems  he  is  tired  of  keeping 
Charley  Millard  down. 

Charley  Millard  is  a  man  of  about  Bart's  age,  and 
in  Bart's  employ;  he  sits  in  the  outer  office  and  tells 
callers  when  Bart  will  be  at  leisure.  In  addition  he 
keeps  the  books  and  looks  after  the  collections. 

Charley  Millard  does  not  really  amount  to  a  great 
deal,  having  tried  practising  law  for  himself,  but  when 
Bart  Wherry  wins  a  big  case  we  all  say  Charley  Mil 
lard  really  won  it;  that  he  looked  up  the  law  and  told 
Bart  what  to  say  in  the  trial.  When  Bart  makes  a 
speech  at  a  convention  and  the  papers  ring  with  it, 
we  say  Charley  Millard  wrote  the  speech;  that  he  is 
bookish,  while  Bart  is  not. 

Charley  Millard's  wife  also  believes  her  husband 
—47— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

should  have  the  reputation  as  a  lawyer  enjoyed  by 
his  employer,  and  in  the  course  of  a  long  time  Bart  has 
become  tired  of  the  talk.  So  he  is  going  to  the  county 
seat  to  open  an  office. 

Charley  Millard  wanted  to  go  along  and  occupy  his 
old  position,  but  Bart  said  to  him:  "No,  Charley, 
you  have  already  done  too  much  for  me.  I  want  you 
to  take  the  position  in  the  legal  world  your  talents 
deserve.  And  at  the  same  time  I  expect  Fin.  Wilkin 
son  to  be  nominated  this  fall  for  President  of  the 
United  States.  It  has  always  been  said  of  Fin.  that 
were  it  not  for  whisky  he  would  occupy  the  first  posi 
tion  in  the  gift  of  the  people.  Now  that  no  more 
liquor  is  to  be  had  let  Fin.  come  through  with  you." 


—48— 


PILSON     BLAIR 


A  good  many  observers  say  Pilson  Blair  is  enjoy 
ing  his  second  wife  as  much  as  the  Widow  Sayer 
enjoys  the  life  insurance  she  collected  from  the  lodge. 


-49— 


BEN     BARTON 

Though  we  are  excited  in  this  town  nearly  every 
day  because  of  a  rumour  that  something  is  likely  to 
happen  before  night,  it  usually  blows  over,  and  we 
find  there  was  not  a  great  deal  in  the  talk  in  the  first 
place. 

But  one  day  a  bomb  exploded  without  the  slightest 
preliminary  warning:  Ben  Barton  and  his  wife 
Emily  parted. 

We  had  known  them  for  years,  and  they  seemed 
to  get  along  as  well  as  any  respectable  married  couple. 
They  had  a  nice  home  and  three  interesting  children. 
Ben  was  prosperous,  and  generally  said  to  be  a  corn 
ing  man;  his  wife  was  a  model  of  propriety,  and  be 
longed  to  an  excellent  family.  But  there  was  no 
doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  report.  Ben  went  to  the 
home  of  his  parents  to  live,  and  Emily  remained  in 
the  house  where  their  children  were  born;  in  a  little 
while  they  applied  quietly  to  the  court,  and  were 
divorced  on  account  of  incompatibility. 

Both  Ben  and  Emily  were  naturally  quiet  and  dig 
nified,  and  since  neither  of  them  volunteered  any  in 
formation  we  were  afraid  to  ask  them.  So  for  a 
year  the  cause  of  the  trouble  between  them  was  the 
town  mystery. 

—50— 


BEN    BARTON 


A  start  was  finally  made  by  Tom  Wyman,  who 
made  a  trip  to  the  city  with  Ben,  and  while  they  had 
nothing  else  to  do  talked  about  a  little  of  everything 
except  the  divorce.  But  Tom  did  say  to  Ben  that 
though  Emily  had  talked  rather  freely  to  her  women 
friends  about  their  differences  she  had  said  nothing 
that  prevented  the  boys  from  being  on  his  side. 

Tom  had  not  really  heard  of  Emily  saying  any 
thing,  but  thought  he  would  try  that,  and  it  worked 
first  rate.  Ben  took  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  the 
statement  that  his  former  wife  had  been  talking  about 
him,  and,  though  he  didn't  say  anything  definite,  as 
soon  as  Tom  returned  home  he  saw  to  it  that  some  of 
the  women  said  to  Emily  that  though  Ben  had  been 
talking  rather  freely  to  the  men  they  were  on  her 
side.  She  also  took  a  good  deal  of  interest,  and 
by  degrees  we  got  the  whole  story.  Ben  told  his 
side,  and  Emily  told  hers,  fully  and  freely. 

I  know  only  Ben's  side,  which  I  have  heard  him 
tell,  and  perhaps  this  will  be  sufficient. 

Ben  says  his  wife  not  only  insisted  on  keeping  a  cow 
but  sold  milk,  and  he  didn't  like  it,  as  it  was  an  inti 
mation  that  he  didn't  provide  his  wife  with  a  reason 
able  amount  of  spending  money.  Nor  was  this  all; 
though  they  kept  a  hired  man  and  servant  girl  the  cow 
was  very  troublesome.  Ben  says  he  rarely  went  home 
in  the  evening  that  there  wasn't  some  row  about  the 
cow  not  coming  up  or  the  children  failing  to  de- 
—51— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

liver  the  milk.  If  it  wasn't  that  it  was  a  dispute 
about  tickets,  and  one  time  a  woman  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  made  a  great  row  over  the  milk  sent  her, 
saying  a  preservative  had  been  put  into  it,  which 
made  her  baby  so  ill  she  was  compelled  to  send  for 
a  doctor.  There  was  some  talk  of  arresting  Ben, 
though  he  had  always  been  opposed  to  keeping  a  cow 
and  particularly  to  selling  milk. 

All  this  made  Ben  very  angry,  so  he  said  to  his 
wife  they  didn't  seem  to  be  cut  out  for  the  milk 
business;  that  the  cow  had  long  annoyed  him  and 
that  since  he  was  doing  well  he  would  cheerfully  buy 
all  the  milk  the  family  needed.  Ben  confessed  he 
talked  more  freely  to  Emily  than  he  had  ever  done 
before,  but  thought  he  had  at  least  settled  the  cow 
question  for  ever;  the  animal  was  sold  at  a  sacrifice, 
and  he  heard  no  more  about  the  matter  for  three 
months. 

Then  a  man  came  to  Ben  and  said  they  might  as 
well  understand  each  other;  that  Ben's  cow  had  broken 
into  his  garden  and  damaged  things  so  much  that  he 
would  no  longer  stand  it.  Ben  replied  that  he  had 
no  cow,  but  the  man  proved  he  had.  It  seemed  that 
Emily  had  bought  another  cow  without  her  husband's 
knowledge,  kept  it  in  a  neighbour's  barn  and  was 
again  selling  milk. 

One  word  brought  on  another,  with  the  result  that 
they  parted. 

—52— 


BEN     BARTON 


As  I  have  already  admitted,  I  do  not  know  Emily's 
side  of  the  story,  which  I  regret;  I  would  like  to  hear 
her  explanation  of  one  charge  made  by  her  former 
husband,  and  which  investigation  reveals  to  be  true. 

She  has  been  free  from  Ben  two  years,  and  has 
plenty  of  means ;  she  has  a  barn  and  a  hired  man,  but 
since  her  husband  left  the  house  she  has  not  kept  a 
cow. 


—53— 


LIGE     BANTA 

When  I  was  a  boy,  a  noted  character  in  our  village 
was  an  old  bachelor  named  Lige  Banta. 

There  had  long  been  jokes  about  Lige  Banta's  bach 
elorhood,  as  he  kept  bachelor's  hall;  and  he  seemed  to 
do  pretty  well  at  it,  for  he  was  a  fat  and  good-natured 
man  of  about  forty.  He  ran  a  butcher  shop,  and 
it  rarely  happened  that  any  one  bought  meat  of  him 
without  mentioning  the  marrying  joke.  Lige  rather 
liked  the  banter  of  the  people,  and  always  said  he 
didn't  marry  because  no  one  would  have  him. 

But  it  was  reported  one  day  that  Lige  was  actually 
to  be  married,  and  the  rumour  attracted  much  atten 
tion.  Finally  the  name  of  the  woman  came  out. 
Lige,  to  the  surprise  of  everybody,  admitted  that  this 
time  the  story  was  true,  after  many  false  alarms,  and 
that  he  would  be  married  early  on  a  certain  Thursday 
morning,  and  take  the  stage  for  Chillicothe  on  his 
wedding  trip. 

I  had  a  consuming  desire  to  witness  the  marriage, 
never  having  seen  one.  I  wondered  what  the  cere 
mony  was  like,  and  had  a  notion  that  it  was  something 
wonderful.  Lige  Banta  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I 
often  put  myself  in  his  way,  but  he  didn't  invite  me* 
—54— 


LIGE    BANTA 


Finally  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  must  see  that  wed 
ding  ceremony  or  die  of  curiosity. 

The  morning  the  wedding  was  to  take  place  I  over 
slept,  and  was  not  able  to  put  on  my  Sunday  suit;  I 
only  had  time  to  slip  on  my  everyday  clothes,  which 
consisted  of  a  pair  of  pants,  a  hickory  shirt  and  a 
straw  hat.  Hurrying  into  this  costume  I  ran  all  the 
way  to  the  part  of  the  town  where  the  marriage  was 
to  take  place,  without  knowing  exactly  how  I  was  to 
get  in.  Arriving  in  front  of  the  house  I  saw  people 
entering,  and  gradually  worked  up  to  the  door.  At 
last,  when  I  thought  it  must  be  time  for  the  ceremony, 
a  belated  guest  hurried  up,  and  when  he  went  in  I  went 
in  with  him. 

There  were  ten  or  fifteen  men  and  women  sitting 
round,  and  my  appearance  amused  them.  It  was 
summertime,  and  my  pantaloons  were  rolled  up  at  the 
bottom,  showing  brown  legs  and  bare  feet.  I  had 
on  galluses,  and  my  hat  was  an  old  straw  affair  that 
was  very  decidedly  out  of  place  at  a  wedding.  The 
guests  though  greatly  amused  didn't  know  I  hadn't 
been  invited  and  didn't  put  me  out. 

Fortunately  attention  was  soon  drawn  from  me;  a 
side  door  opened  and  Lige  came  out  with  his  bride. 
I  can't  recall  her  name;  she  probably  belonged  to  a 
family  I  didn't  know  very  well.  The  man  I  came  in 
with  turned  out  to  be  the  preacher,  and  he  stepped  up 
to  read  the  ceremony. 

—55— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

I  was  greatly  disappointed ;  it  didn't  amount  to  any 
thing,  and  I  half  regretted  coming.  After  the  cere 
mony  the  guests  went  up  and  congratulated  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Banta  and  I  followed  their  example.  By  this 
time  I  was  attracting  more  attention  than  the  bride 
and  groom,  the  preacher  and  the  bride's  kin.  Lige 
didn't  seem  to  care,  and  I  thought  I  might  find  oppor 
tunity  to  take  him  off  to  one  side  and  explain  matters. 

The  bride's  kin  had  prepared  a  wedding  breakfast, 
and  when  it  was  ready  they  invited  me  out  with  the 
others.  They  had  lots  of  fun  with  me,  and  heaped 
my  plate  with  things  to  eat,  but  as  I  had  a  ravenous 
appetite  they  didn't  have  any  more  fun  with  me  than 
I  had  with  them.  It  happened  that  there  was  a  vacant 
seat  next  to  the  bride,  and  I  was  assigned  to  that.  I 
always  did  talk  too  much,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  I 
was  impatient  when  interrupted  by  the  bride  or  groom, 
the  preacher  or  any  of  the  guests. 

Soon  after  the  breakfast  was  over  the  stage  came 
along,  and  Lige  and  his  bride  left  for  Chillicothe. 
I  swung  on  behind,  and  rode  uptown. 

When  my  mother  heard  about  my  attending  the 
wedding  she  cried,  but  she  didn't  whip  me;  she  never 
whipped  her  children,  but  my  father  whipped  hard. 
But  fortunately  he  never  heard  of  it,  though  every  one 
else  did.  The  story  of  my  attending  the  wedding 
uninvited,  in  my  bare  feet,  got  round — stories  on  me 


LIGE    BANTA 


always  get  round  somehow — and  I  never  heard  the 
last  of  it. 

I  went  hack  to  the  town  forty  years  later,  and 
though  I  had  heen  away  a  good  many  years  Jim  Ham 
ilton  threw  up  the  story  to  me.  Jim  Hamilton  was 
the  man  who  had  always  predicted  that  I  would  he 
hanged. 

I  recalled  that  prediction  to  him,  but  he  didn't  mind 
it;  indeed  he  replied  quite  coolly:  "Well,  you're  not 
dead  yet." 


-57— 


MARY     MASON 

The  best  women  have  a  streak  of  stubbornness. 
I  know  a  gentle  woman  who  has  a  daughter  as  gentle 
as  herself.  I  greatly  admire  both  of  them,  as  they 
are  the  sort  of  women  I  believe  others  should  accept  as 
models.  But  John  Mason,  husband  of  the  one  and 
father  of  the  other,  lately  told  a  story  about  them 
which  amused  me. 

Every  morning  this  family  has  fried  eggs  for  break 
fast;  they  prefer  eggs  cooked  in  that  way  rather  than 
soft  boiled  or  scrambled.  The  gentle  mother  believes 
fried  eggs  should  be  salted  as  soon  as  broken  into 
the  pan,  while  the  gentle  daughter  believes  they  should 
be  salted  when  ready  for  the  table. 

Mary,  the  gentle  daughter,  always  fried  the  eggs, 
and  the  husband  and  father  says  that  every  morning 
for  years  his  gentle  wife  said  to  his  gentle  daughter 
as  soon  as  she  broke  the  eggs  into  the  frying  pan: 
"Mary,  did  you  salt  the  eggs?" 

And  Mary,  being  truthful,  replied  that  she  had  not; 
and  being  obedient,  proceeded  to  salt  them  according 
to  her  mother's  notions  rather  than  according  to  her 
own;  at  the  same  time  getting  that  sullen  look  in  her 
eyes  which  should  never  disfigure  the  face  of  a  gentle 
woman. 

—58— 


MARY    MASON 


The  husband  and  father  says  he  and  his  wife  lately 
spent  the  night  at  the  home  of  his  daughter,  now 
married,  and  at  breakfast  the  daughter  salted  the  eggs 
when  she  brought  them  to  the  table. 

"And,"  he  added,  "they  were  just  as  good;  though 
I  could  see  my  wife  was  aching  to  say  something." 


—59— 


UNCLE     JIMMY     HASKINS 

When  there  is  anything  going  on  in  the  surround 
ing  country  some  of  the  town  men  drive  out.  The 
habit  not  only  brings  trade  but  extends  our  acquaint 
ance. 

Last  week  I  drove  out  to  attend  the  golden  wedding 
of  Uncle  Jimmy  Haskins.  There  were  a  good  many 
children  and  grandchildren  present,  and  all  the  neigh 
bours;  and  after  dinner  Uncle  Jimmy  and  his  wife 
told  reminiscences. 

Mrs.  Haskins  remembered  little  but  hard  work.  It 
seemed  wonderful  to  me  that  a  woman  should  work  as 
hard  as  she  did,  even  in  the  early  days,  and  she  made 
out  quite  a  case,  I  thought,  against  her  daughters,  her 
daughters-in-law  and  the  other  women  present. 

I  suppose  Uncle  Jimmy  worked  hard  too,  but  he 
didn't  say  much  about  it.  I  was  struck  with  the  fact 
that  the  most  remarkable  event  he  could  recall  in  his 
history  was  that  he  once  killed  a  squirrel  with  a  rifle 
after  several  other  men  had  fired  at  it  repeatedly. 
Here  was  a  man  seventy-seven  years  old,  yet  he  had 
no  other  adventure  worth  recalling.  Uncle  Jimmy 
has  five  sons,  who  are  prosperous  farmers,  and  four 
daughters,  who  married  good  mer\,  He  is  a  man  of 


UNCLE     JIMMY    HAS  KINS 


fair  intelligence  and  ability,  yet  he  has  nothing  to 
boast  of  except  one  lucky  shot  at  a  squirrel! 

Uncle  Jimmy  went  to  work  early.  I  heard  him 
recall  that  he  did  farm  work  when  he  was  six  years 
old  and  that  his  father  used  to  complain  bitterly  that 
the  boy  had  been  a  burden  until  he  passed  into  his 
seventh  year.  For  seventy-one  years  therefore  he  had 
been  going  to  bed  only  to  be  called  in  the  morning  to 
go  to  work,  and  nothing  remarkable  has  happened  to 
him  except  shooting  a  squirrel. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  every  man's  life  would 
make  a  book  if  candidly  written,  but  probably  this  is 
a  mistake;  certainly  Uncle  Jimmy's  memoirs  would 
be  rejected  by  a  publisher.  In  his  day  there  were 
bears  and  deer  and  buffaloes,  but  he  never  killed  one. 
He  was  once  young  and  rode  about  looking  for  ad 
venture,  but  never  found  any. 

In  the  early  days  there  were  bold  and  wicked  men, 
but  they  never  disturbed  him.  For  seventy-odd  years 
he  has  locked  his  doors  and  fastened  his  windows  at 
night,  but  has  never  been  robbed.  In  seventy-seven 
years  he  has  never  had  an  illness  worth  recalling. 
The  wind  and  lightning  have  threatened  more  than 
three-quarters  of  a  century  without  hitting  him. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  Uncle  Jimmy's  humdrum 
life  and  am  compelled  to  confess  that  so  far  mine 
has  been  much  like  it. 

—61— 


GUS     SANDERSON 

When  the  railroad  decided  to  extend,  Gus  Sander 
son  had  a  tip  that  a  town  was  to  ))e  built  in  a  corn 
field  twenty  miles  west  to  be  called  Prairie  View. 
So  he  went  to  an  ignorant  Indian,  who  didn't  know 
anything,  and  offered  him  thirteen  thousand  dollars 
for  forty  acres  adjoining  the  proposed  town  site.  The 
Indian  accepted  the  offer,  and  everybody  abused  San 
derson  for  cheating  a  poor  Indian.  They  said  San 
derson  having  had  the  benefit  of  public  schools  and 
civilization  and  newspapers  was  an  intelligent  and 
learned  man  and  that  therefore  he  should  not  have 
robbed  an  ignorant  Indian  who  had  never  had  any 
advantages. 

For  two  or  three  years  Sanderson  was  held  up  to 
public  scorn  because  of  the  transaction  and  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  talk  about  his  tainted  money.  One 
pastor  refused  to  accept  a  donation  from  Gus  be 
cause  of  the  transaction  with  the  Indian,  and  the 
pastor  was  generally  praised  because  he  was  high- 
minded. 

But  the  boom  at  Prairie  View  did  not  develop  as 
was  expected.  The  land  is  not  now  worth  half  what 
Sanderson  paid  for  it.  There  is  now  indeed  some 
sympathy  for  Sanderson  and  people  say  it  was  a 
shame  for  a  smart  Indian  to  rob  a  fool  white  man. 
—62— 


TOM     HARRISON 

Old  Tom  Harrison,  who  was  very  old,  very  poor 
and  lately  rather  weak-minded,  died  last  night. 
There  was  not  a  dissenting  voice.  We  all  said,  "He's 
better  off." 

Usually  in  case  of  a  death  many  say,  "It's  too  bad." 
But  the  decision  was  unanimous  in  old  Tom's  case. 


JUDGE     TERRY 

When  Roscoe  Terry,  the  lawyer,  came  to  town  we 
somehow  knew  he  expected  to  be  called  judge,  and  so 
he  has  been  known  ever  since.  He  is  quite  old  now, 
somewhat  deaf  and  being  cared  for  by  his  children. 
Having  long  been  a  widower  he  has  no  wife  to  talk 
to  and  is  alone  a  great  deal,  so  his  children  pay  the 
hired  girl  an  extra  dollar  a  week  to  listen  to  him 
politely  while  he  settles  things  and  criticizes  what  he 
reads.  The  hired  girl  is  a  Swede  and  doesn't  under 
stand  half  he  is  saying.  A  man  doesn't  care  to  quit 
expressing  his  opinions  because  he  is  old.  The 
Swede  girl  is  wise  enough  not  to  reply  to  his  argu 
ments,  so  he  soon  settles  the  questions  he  discusses 
and  goes  off  to  read  and  find  something  new  to  be 
indignant  about. 


-64 


THE     WITTWER     BOYS 

We  have  in  this  town  a  lodge  known  as  the  Central 
Protective  Association.  It  originated  among  the 
farmers  to  discourage  horse  stealing,  but  nearly  all 
the  town  men  joined  as  a  means  of  getting  country 
trade,  The  meetings  of  the  association  are  mainly 
devoted  to  oyster  suppers  in  winter  and  ice-cream 
socials  in  summer  and  the  initiation.  The  members 
do  nearly  everything  to  those  who  join. 

The  work  is  supposed  to  be  secret,  but  a  smart 
country  boy  can  describe  the  ceremonies  of  nearly 
every  lodge  in  town.  So  the  Wittwer  boys,  Doc  and 
Orrie,  knew  what  they  were  about  when  they  con 
cluded  to  become  members. 

Word  went  round  quietly  that  the  Wittwers  were 
candidates  on  a  certain  night  and  they  were  given  the 
full  works  with  a  few  extra  touches,  as  the  Wittwers 
were  known  to  be  waggish  themselves. 

When  the  exercises  were  finally  over  the  Wittwer 
boys  were  called  on  for  speeches  in  order  to  have 
more  fun  with  them.  Doc  Wittwer  was  called  on 
first  and  said  he  liked  the  order  well  enough,  but  that 
it  seemed  to  him  the  Wittwers  had  been  given  the  worst 
of  it;  that  his  name  was  second  on  the  list  of  candi 
dates,  but  he  was  compelled  to  wait  in  the  anteroom 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

three  hours  before  being  called  out.  He  also  ex 
pressed  the  opinion  that  the  Wittwers  were  about  as 
good  as  some  others;  that  their  notes  were  as  highly 
regarded  at  the  bank  and  their  trade  as  much  sought 
after  at  the  stores. 

Orrie  Wittwer  also  talked — without  being  called 
on.  He  shared  his  brother's  resentment.  Orrie 
Wittwer  was  rather  more  reasonable  than  his  brother 
and  was  finally  pacified  by  the  president,  but  Doc 
Wittwer  continued  to  talk  about  what  he  called  a 
raw  deal.  The  president  said  he  was  certain  no  dis 
respect  had  been  purposely  shown  the  Wittwers,  but 
Doc  said  disrespect  had  been  shown  them — and  quite 
gratuitously,  he  thought.  When  the  president  said 
they  were  now  all  brothers  Doc  replied  that  the  presi 
dent  should  have  thought  of  that  when  the  Wittwers 
were  being  mauled  by  nearly  a  hundred  others.  Doc 
frankly  confessed  he  was  ill-natured  and  not  likely  to 
get  rid  of  it  soon. 

Harvey  Stone,  an  old  member,  finally  interrupted 
and  said  with  some  heat  that  as  the  new  member  did 
not  seem  to  be  satisfied  why  didn't  he  get  out. 
Whereupon  Doc  Wittwer  replied  that  possibly  there 
was  a  gentleman  present  who  could  or  would  attempt 
to  put  him  out. 

The  president  wildly  waved  his  arms  and  demanded 
order;  he  called  on  all  present  to  remember  their 
pledges,  for  it  seemed  there  was  not  only  a  gentleman 


THE     WITTWER    BOYS 


present  who  thought  he  could  put  Doc  Wittwer  out 
but  Who  was  actually  advancing  for  that  purpose. 

The  scene  of  merriment  was  thus  suddenly  changed 
to  one  of  terror,  for  Doc  Wittwer  put  his  right  hand 
behind  him  and  warned  Harvey  Stone  to  keep  his  dis 
tance.  But  as  Mr.  Stone  did  not  keep  his  distance 
Doc  Wittwer  pulled  a  long  pistol  and  fired.  Harvey 
Stone  fell,  the  lights  went  out  and  the  shooting  be 
came  general. 

Clarence  Bradford  thought  he  was  the  first  brother 
to  get  out  of  the  hall,  but  when  he  reached  the  street 
found  that  Henry  Ward  had  preceded  him,  found  the 
city  marshal  and  was  coming  back  with  that  official. 
Harvey  Stone,  whose  business  it  was  to  fire  blank 
cartridges  at  the  floor  when  the  lights  went  out,  says 
he  hit  Tom  Hart,  who  seemed  to  be  crawling,  with  a 
paper  wad,  and  then  when  he  fired  in  the  air  to  avoid 
hitting  any  other  brother  hit  Sam  Stevens,  who  seemed 
to  be  flying. 

It  was  all  a  joke.  The  Wittwer  boys  were  getting 
even,  but  the  old  members  did  not  know  it  and 
threaten  to  file  charges  against  the  new  members. 


—67— 


AUNT     MAHALA 

I  heard  today  of  the  death  of  one  of  the  most  re 
markable  women  I  ever  knew — my  Aunt  Mahala. 
This  worthy  woman  spent  her  life  in  visiting  round 
among  her  relatives.  And  she  was  unusual  in  this: 
Before  they  were  ready  for  her  to  go  at  one  house 
there  was  clamouring  for  her  at  all  the  others.  The 
great  event  at  our  house  when  I  was  a  boy  was  the 
arrival  of  Aunt  Mahala,  and  though  she  did  not  have 
much  herself  she  always  managed  to  bring  something 
for  every  member  of  the  family.  The  older  ones 
loved  her  as  well  as  the  children  and  no  one  in  all  of 
our  vast  connection  ever  tired  of  her.  She  always 
had  dates  a  year  ahead. 

Aunt  Mahala  had  no  rights  that  she  cared  to  assert 
and  for  that  reason  she  enjoyed  more  rights  than  any 
woman  I  ever  knew.  She  was  willing  to  sleep  on  a 
pallet  on  the  floor,  but  always  had  the  best  bed  in 
the  house.  There  was  not  a  man  in  all  our  con 
nection  that  would  not  take  his  team  from  the  plough 
during  the  busy  season  and  go  after  her. 

Aunt  Mahala  was  a  great  lover  of  children.  I 
remember  that  when  she  went  to  visit  at  Uncle  John's 
or  Aunt  Lib's  I  heard  soon  after  that  there  was  a  new 
baby  at  their  house.  Aunt  Mahala  was  so  fond  of 


AUNT    MAHALA 


children  that  she  always  wanted  to  be  the  first  to 
welcome  them.  If  any  of  the  grown  people  in  the 
family  met  with  an  accident  or  had  a  severe  sickness 
they  were  never  satisfied  that  everything  possible  was 
being  done  until  Aunt  Mahala  arrived  and  cried 
softly  for  a  moment  beside  their  bed.  Then  she 
would  remove  her  things  and  in  half  an  hour  the 
patient  would  be  much  better.  Whatever  the  trouble 
was,  Aunt  Mahala  knew  what  to  do.  I  used  to  think 
that  whatever  respect  the  neighbours  had  for  our  fam 
ily  was  on  account  of  Aunt  Mahala.  The  neighbours 
wanted  her  to  visit  them,  but  we  never  could  spare 
her. 

The  letter  informing  me  of  her  death  said  she  went 
to  bed  in  her  usual  health  one  night  and  was  found 
dead  in  the  morning.  That  was  always  Aunt 
Mahala' s  way — she  never  wanted  to  make  trouble. 


—69— 


MARIE     TAYLOR 

We  began  hearing  of  Marie  Taylor's  art  when  she 
was  seven  years  old.  At  that  early  day  she 
could  play  a  piano  pretty  well  and  many  of  us  were 
compelled  to  listen  when  we  didn't  care  for  it.  Not 
that  she  wasn't  good — for  a  child — and  from  that  day 
to  this  we  have  heard  about  the  place  she  is  entitled 
to  fill  in  the  musical  world. 

Old  Henry  Taylor,  her  father,  never  took  so  much 
interest  in  Marie's  art  as  did  his  wife,  who  was  almost 
crazy  on  the  subject.  But  old  Henry  somehow  man 
aged  to  raise  money  to  pay  for  her  lessons.  When 
her  piano  teacher  gave  a  recital  we  were  all  expected 
to  buy  tickets,  because  our  town  had  never  before  had 
a  prospect  of  occupying  a  position  in  the  public  eye, 
and  we  knew  Marie  would  play  at  least  twice  her 
self  and  once  with  the  teacher. 

When  Marie  was  seventeen  we  began  hearing  that 
she  really  should  have  better  instruction,  as  she  had 
outgrown  all  the  teachers  at  home;  and  then  came 
the  occasion  when  tickets  sold  at  a  dollar  each.  Not 
many  were  present  for  one  cause  or  another,  but  Marie 
got  off  for  the  city.  When  she  came  back  we  were 
all  expected  to  be  interested  in  the  improvement  she 
had  made  under  Bagalowski,  who  came  home  with 
—70— 


MARIE     TAYLOR 


her  and  played  at  her  concert;  and  really  we  couldn't 
see  that  he  was  very  much  better  than  Marie.  Indeed, 
he  was  reported  as  saying  that  she  should  go  abroad, 
which  she  soon  did,  her  mother  going  with  her. 

The  going-abroad  concert  was  not  much  of  a  suc 
cess  either.  When  the  Taylors  were  leaving  the  hall 
they  were  all  ill-natured  and  old  Henry  spoke  sharply 
to  his  wife  as  Maria,  though  we  had  all  been  given  to 
understand  that  Marie  had  been  named  for  her 
mother. 

There  was  considerable  sympathy  for  old  Henry 
Taylor,  because  of  the  manner  in  which  he  slaved  and 
saved  to  pay  the  expense  of  the  trip  abroad.  Doc 
Filson  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  though  most  of 
the  girls  round  town  took  lessons  they  knew  when 
to  stop. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  old  Henry  Taylor  moved  away. 
We  were  at  liberty  to  believe  he  was  going  to  Paris, 
where  his  daughter  was  succeeding  with  her  art,  but 
he  never  said  where  he  was  going. 

We  found  out  a  few  years  later.  Marsh  Edson, 
who  made  a  trip  to  Oklahoma  to  look  at  land,  ran 
across  them  in  a  little  town  there,  and  Marie  was 
giving  lessons,  charging  fifty  cents  an  hour  because 
she  had  studied  abroad. 


—71— 


BILL     HALL 

A  man  named  James  T.  Oliver,  who  advertises  in 
the  papers  that  he  will  raise  money  for  various  un 
necessary  public  enterprises  for  a  per  cent  of  the  col 
lections,  lately  appeared  here  with  the  avowed  pur 
pose  of  raising  ten  thousand  dollars  in  seven  days. 

Oliver  called  on  Bill  Hall  and  found  him  busy, 
but  Oliver  impudently  demanded  that  Mr.  Hall  listen 
to  him.  Hall  was  angered  by  this  unusual  demand, 
but  finally  suspended  business  as  the  nervy  agent  re 
quired.  Hall  listened  patiently  while  Oliver  made 
his  talk  and  then  asked:  "May  I  now  say  a  word?" 

Oliver  grudgingly  consented  and  Hall  said:  "In 
the  first  place,  I  will  give  you  nothing.  In  the  second, 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  regard  you  as  the  nerviest 
adventurer  I  have  encountered  in  many  years.  You 
depend  upon  your  impudence,  of  which  you  have  a 
disgusting  supply,  to  carry  you  through;  and  I  wish 
to  add  that  if  you  are  not  out  of  this  office  in  two  sec 
onds  I  will  give  you  a  whipping  you  will  long  re 
member.  I  have  been  annoyed  by  adventurers  of 
your  type  until  I  am  fighting  mad." 

"Remember,  sir,"  Oliver  said,  "that  there  are  ladies 
present." 

—72— 


BILL    HALL 


Oliver  has  two  women  helpers  and  these  were  with 
him. 

"My  remarks  refer  to  them  as  well  as  to  you," 
Bill  said.  "I  am  glad  they  are  present  to  hear  what 
I  have  to  say." 

Oliver  replied  with  extracts  from  his  biggest  talk 
and  Bill  hit  him.  Oliver  struck  back  and  Bill  wiped 
the  floor  with  him  in  spite  of  the  screams  of  the  lady 
assistants.  Then  Oliver  was  led  to  the  door  and 
thrown  into  the  street.  He  spent  five  days  in  a  hos 
pital  and  says  he  will  sue  Bill  for  fifty  thousand  dol 
lars  damages. 

The  local  paper  in  speaking  of  the  affair  said: 
"Without  discussing  here  the  right  or  wrong  of  Mr. 
Hall's  action,  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  it  seems  to  be 
very  popular.  Mr.  Hall  is  receiving  hundreds  of 
letters  of  congratulation." 

I  don't  mind  confessing  I  sent  one  of  those  letters. 


—73— 


JOHN  DAVIS 

There  is  no  better  young  man  in  town  than  John 
Davis.  He  is  polite,  reliable  and  reads  good  books. 
Indeed  When  he  went  on  his  wedding  journey  he  took 
a  Bible  with  him. 

It  was  a  praiseworthy  thing  to  do,  but  many  people 
laughed  over  the  incident.  Indeed,  some  of  the 
young  people  say  they  heard  the  bride  herself  laugh 
about  it. 


—74— 


HON.     MARTIN     HOLBROOK 

Ten  years  ago  Martin  Holbrook  was  a  member  of 
Congress  and  has  been  proud  of  it  ever  since.  But 
people  do  not  remember  his  efforts  in  their  behalf. 
About  all  they  say  of  his  experience  at  the  Capitol  is: 

"You  wouldn't  think  that  man  had  been  in  Con 
gress,  would  you?" 


—75— 


ANS     WHITCOMB 

When  I  was  a  boy  thirteen  or  fourteen  years 
old  Ans  Whitcomb,  the  tombstone  man,  asked  me  to 
drive  out  in  the  country  to  see  if  Squire  Newcomb 
would  take  a  monument  they  had  been  dickering  over. 
It  seems  the  old  squire  wanted  the  monument — if  at 
all — by  the  twenty-eighth,  the  anniversary  of  his 
wife's  death,  and  as  Ans  talked  to  me  on  the  four 
teenth  he  had  to  know  about  it,  as  several  days  would 
be  required  to  cut  the  dove  and  the  lettering.  So  he 
said  he  would  give  me  a  dollar  and  let  me  take  his 
horse  and  buggy  if  I  would  drive  out  and  see. 

Squire  Newcomb  didn't  say  in  so  many  words  that 
he  wouldn't  take  the  tombstone;  he  said  he  would 
see  Ans  about  it,  or  something  else  that  made  me  be 
lieve  in  connection  with  my  friendship  for  Ans  and 
my  optimism  that  it  would  be  all  right. 

I  didn't  like  to  have  Ans  waste  his  dollar  or  return 
from  a  fruitless  errand,  so  my  reply  caused  Ans  to  go 
ahead  and  finish  the  tombstone.  I  felt  a  little  queer 
when  I  saw  him  working  on  it,  but  I  was  always  too 
optimistic  and  really  believed  the  old  squire  would 
take  the  tombstone  after  the  design  they  had  talked 
over  was  complete. 

—76— 


ANS    WHITCOMB 


It  turned  out  that  Squire  Newcomb  had  actually 
bought  a  tombstone  of  another  agent  before  I  went  out 
there,  and  I  felt  so  mean  about  it  that  it  was  a  relief 
when  Ans  moved  away.  I  was  never  able  to  see  him 
without  feeling  guilty,  though  I  was  really  only  op 
timistic  when  I  deceived  him. 

The  experience  taught  me  a  lesson.  I  cross  my  t's 
and  dot  my  i's  now  in  conversation  as  well  as  in  let 
ters.  I  am  neither  optimistic  nor  pessimistic. 


-77— 


MART     TOWNE 

I  once  knew  a  man  named  Mart  Towne,  who  was 
wasting  away  with  illness.  Meeting  him  one  day,  I 
suggested  a  remedy. 

"I  can't  try  your  suggestion  for  some  time,"  he 
replied  in  a  weak  voice,  "so  many  others  are  in 
ahead  of  you." 

The  man  died  before  he  got  round  to  my  remedy. 
Here  was  a  man  who  had  had  good  advice  for  years, 
yet  he  grew  thinner  steadily  and  finally  died  with  a 
great  stock  of  good  advice  on  hand  he  had  been  un 
able  to  try. 


—78— 


SARAH     BROWNELL 

Sarah  Brownell  lately  procured  a  divorce  from  her 
husband  and  they  had  quite  a  time  making  charges 
against  each  other,  indicating  a  rough-house  continu 
ing  several  years. 

Yesterday  I  was  on  the  streets  and  by  accident  fell 
in  behind  Mrs.  Brownell  and  Milt  Ward,  a  well-known 
old  bachelor. 

Mrs.  Brownell  was  displaying  all  the  womanly  arts 
of  fascination,  and  the  exhibit  was  interesting  to  me, 
when  I  remembered  some  of  the  testimony  in  the 
divorce  proceedings.  Mr.  Brownell  swore  among 
other  things  that  his  wife  hit  him  with  a  skillet. 

But  how  gentle  she  was  to  Milt  Ward!  How  pret 
tily  she  looked  into  his  eyes!  There  was  art  in  her 
smile — in  every  action. 

And  Milt  Ward  was  as  gallant  and  interested  a 
gentleman  as  I  have  ever  seen.  Unless  he  wants  to 
break  his  resolution  not  to  marry  so  long  as  his  mother 
lives  he'd  better  quit  going  with  that  woman. 


—79— 


TOM     MARSH 

I  suggest  that  the  old  saying  be  changed  to  "Every 
thing  is  fair  in  war,"  and  leave  love  out  of  it.  Cap 
Wilson,  the  warrior,  says  he  killed  a  man  at  Gettys 
burg  and  maybe  several  others  he  doesn't  know  about. 
He  is  not  only  forgiven  but  there  is  talk  of  making 
him  county  treasurer. 

But  it  is  different  with  Tom  Marsh,  the  lover. 
Every  one  is  picking  on  him  so  persistently  because 
of  a  recent  love  affair  that  instead  of  talk  of  electing 
him  to  office  there  is  talk  of  putting  him  where  the 
dogs  won't  bite  him. 


—80— 


JIM     SEARLES 

When  James  Hadley  Searles  first  came  to  town  he 
stopped  at  the  Pierce  House  and  paid  the  regular 
rate,  which  was  two  dollars  a  day.  We  heard  he 
was  a  college  graduate  and  a  lawyer  and  represented 
Eastern  capital,  but  in  two  weeks  he  moved  to  Mrs. 
Hampton's  boarding  house  and  paid  six  dollars  a 
week. 

At  first  Mr.  Searles  wore  his  best  clothes  all  the 
time,  but  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  months  he  put 
on  an  old  suit  and  opened  a  law  office  of  one  room 
in  Scully's  Block.  After  that  a  good  many  called 
him  Jim  and  everybody  knew  he  didn't  represent 
much  Eastern  capital. 

A  young  fellow  named  Henry  Longfellow  Marsh 
came  to  visit  Jim  the  following  spring  and  it  was  said 
round  the  boarding  house  that  they  talked  a  good 
deal  of  their  old  college  days  and  of  the  pranks  they 
used  to  play.  They  also  sang  several  songs  nobody 
else  knew. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  a  college  education," 
Bill  Hillman,  one  of  the  other  boarders,  said  pri 
vately,  "but  a  good  many  get  along  without  it." 

That  comforted  others,  for  Jim  made  such  a  spe 
cialty  of  his  college  education  that  learning  was  rather 
—81— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

more  unpopular  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been. 
He  brought  the  first  news  of  Keats  and  Shelley  to  our 
town.  Some  of  us  had  heard  of  Dante  and  tried  to 
read  the  Divine  Comedy,  but  in  wondering  why  it 
was  called  a  comedy  gave  it  up. 

Jim  put  in  his  letter  at  the  Presbyterian  church; 
he  said  that  was  the  thing  to  do  in  getting  acquainted 
in  a  little  town,  but  a  good  many  knew  he  was  not 
strict.  Indeed,  he  hinted  that  if  he  cared  to  he  could 
controvert  a  good  deal  the  minister  said,  and  one  time, 
when  some  of  the  young  men  sent  to  the  city  for  a 
bottle  of  whisky,  he  gave  them  to  understand  it  was 
no  new  thing  to  him.  But  otherwise  he  was  guilty  of 
no  particular  devilment  and  was  well  behaved,  though 
his  talk  always  had  the  sarcastic  tinge  common  with 
highly  educated  men  who  do  not  succeed  very  well. 

When  rather  old  Jim  married  Amanda  Wheeler,  the 
school-teacher,  who  also  had  a  college  education,  and 
they  had  three  children,  Matthew,  Mark  and  John, 
Who  also  felt  their  superiority.  They  kept  two  cows 
and,  having  a  surplus  of  milk,  the  children  peddled  it 
round  the  neighbourhood. 

Bart  Wherry,  the  other  lawyer,  who  continued  to 
have  most  of  the  law  business,  never  liked  Jim  very 
well  and  once,  when  he  found  that  his  wife  was  tak 
ing  milk  of  Searles,  said:  "If  he  ever  makes  me  mad 
I'll  quit  taking  milk  of  him  and  starve  him  to  death." 

—82— 


SANDY     MCPHERSON 


Sandy  McPherson,  the  barber,  says  he  charges  five 
dollars  for  shaving  a  dead  man  because  he  is  com 
pelled  to  throw  away  the  razor  he  uses.  But  how  do 
we  know  he  throws  the  razor  away? 


—83— 


JOE     BUSH 

Joe  Bush,  who  travels  for  a  city  house  but  lives  in 
this  town,  had  occasion  to  make  a  trip  of  eighteen 
miles  on  a  Sunday  night.  For  the  purpose  he  hired 
an  automobile  and  a  driver. 

Along  the  road  the  headlight  of  the  machine  dis 
played  a  number  of  Scriptural  texts  painted  in  large 
letters  on  a  farmer's  barn.  The  driver  was  not  cer 
tain  about  the  road  at  this  point  and  Joe  went  in  to 
inquire. 

He  found  the  farmer  and  members  of  his  family 
engaged  in  a  religious  service  and  Joe  was  invited  to 
take  part,  which  he  did.  When  they  engaged  in 
prayer,  which  the  farmer  led,  he  bluntly  criticized 
Joe  for  travelling  Sunday  night.  Then  there  was  sing 
ing,  and  at  the  end  of  the  second  hymn  the  farmer 
invited  Joe  to  lead  in  prayer. 

Joe  was  brought  up  in  a  Christian  family  and, 
though  he  had  never  before  led  in  prayer,  he  was  a 
little  mad  because  of  the  manner  in  which  the  farmer 
had  talked  about  him  and  he  accepted  the  invitation. 

Joe  approached  the  throne  of  grace  so  devoutly  that 
the  farmer  frequently  cried  "Amen"  to  express  ap 
proval.  But  as  Joe  warmed  up  he  began  criticizing 


JOE    BUSH 


the  farmer  for  lack  of  charity.  He  asked  the  Lord 
to  soften  the  hearts  of  hypocrites  and  others  who 
thought  too  much  of  themselves  and  finally  closed  by 
expressing  the  hope  that  at  the  last  great  day  the  most 
unregenerate  and  impudent  might  be  saved. 

The  prayer  over,  they  sang  another  hymn,  and  then 
the  farmer  wanted  to  pray  again  to  answer  Joe,  but 
Joe  said  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  make  a  train  in  the  next 
town  and  departed  after  shaking  hands  all  round. 


—85— 


CLEVE     HUNT 

Cleve  Hunt,  a  Baptist,  is  going  with  Mary  Harris, 
a  Presbyterian.  They  are  engaged,  but  delay  mar 
riage  because  of  their  differences  in  Christian  doc 
trine.  One  Sunday  Cleve  goes  to  the  Presbyterian 
church  with  Mary  and  the  mean  way  in  which  he 
looks  about  has  attracted  attention:  a  good  many 
folks  are  now  going  to  the  Presbyterian  church  simply 
to  be  amused  at  the  way  Cleve  registers  disgust 
throughout  the  services. 

The  next  Sunday  the  crowd  goes  to  the  Baptist 
church,  where  Mary  Harris  registers  disgust  and  con 
tempt  for  everything  Baptist.  Church  attendance  in 
the  neighbourhood  has  greatly  increased  because  of 
the  row. 


— 86— ^ 


MICHAEL   RAFFERTIT 

Michael  Rafferty,  who  lives  in  Chicago,  is  visiting 
his  sister,  Mrs.  Maggie  Kelley.  Mr.  Rafferty  finds 
it  dull  here,  as  there  are  only  women  in  the  house 
where  he  is  visiting.  They  say  Mr.  Rafferty's  yawn, 
as  he  sits  on  the  porch  of  his  sister's  home  in  the 
evening,  is  something  artistic  as  an  expression  of  be 
ing  bored. 


—87— 


JOE     WELLS 

Joe  Wells'  sister  Susan,  who  married  well  and  is 
living  in  Chicago,  is  visiting  her  brother.  The  other 
day  one  of  Ben  Hewling's  little  girls  was  playing  with 
the  Wells  children  and  saw  Susan  smoking  a  cigarette. 
The  child  was  greatly  shocked  and,  hurrying  home, 
said  to  her  mother:  "When  I  go  down  town  I  intend 
to  tell  a  policeman." 


—88— 


TOM     HARPER 

I  lately  met  Tom  Harper.  He  has  been  married 
only  three  months,  but  I  have  never  seen  a  more 
wretched-looking  man. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

He  made  no  reply  except  to  reach  in  his  pocket  and 
hand  me  a  paper.  It  was  a  dentist's  bill  for  seventy- 
three  dollars  for  Using  his  wife's  teeth.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  talk  about  the  incident.  Mrs.  Harper's 
parents  knew  her  teeth  needed  a  good  overhauling 
when  she  was  at  home.  Why  did  they  put  it  off? 
Some  of  the  men  say  Mrs.  Harper's  father  should  pay 
the  bill. 


—89— 


ASBERRY     MORTON 

The  day  Asberry  Morton  was  elected  to  Congress 
from  the  Fifth  District  there  was  a  good  deal  of  quiet 
satisfaction  all  over  town;  not  that  we  expected  he 
would  be  able  to  do  much  for  us,  but  his  election  was 
a  tribute  to  an  excellent  man  we  all  highly  esteemed. 

Asberry  was  not  a  genius,  but  a  good  steady  citizen 
and  neighbour  who  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  had  en 
joyed  an  excellent  reputation.  People  liked  his  wife 
and  children,  too,  for  Asberry  had  made  a  success 
as  a  husband  and  father  as  well  as  a  merchant  and 
citizen. 

His  nomination  for  Congress  was  a  compromise, 
but  his  election  was  expected,  as  he  stood  well  all  over 
the  district  and  his  party  had  a  commanding  majority. 

The  evening  after  the  election  Tom  Harris  gave  a 
dinner  in  Asberry's  honour.  Only  a  few  of  his  more 
particular  friends  were  invited.  After  dinner  the 
husbands  smoked  in  the  dining  room,  while  the  wives 
retired  to  the  front  room,  where  they  talked  about 
whatever  interested  them. 

Asberry  expressed   much  satisfaction  because   of 

the  good  friends  he  had.  and  of  the  compliment  paid 

him  late  in  life.     Being  the  guest  of  the  evening  he 

was  permitted  to  do  most  of  the  talking.     This  op- 

—90— 


ASBERRY    MORTON 


portunity  caused  him  to  tell  a  reminiscence  of  his 
early  life. 

There  were  four  listeners  to  the  story,  and  Asberry 
began  it  by  saying:  "Four  of  the  five  best  friends  I 
have  in  the  world  are  present  tonight,  the  fifth  being 
(my  wife,  and  I  feel  like  making  the  confession  to  you 
I  made  to  her  long  ago.  When  I  came  to  this  town 
and  opened  the  Bargain  Store  the  other  merchants 
said  I  was  a  tramp,  and  should  be  taxed  so  heavily 
that  I  would  move  on  without  opening  my  goods; 
but  I  have  been  here  twenty-five  years,  and  shall  prob 
ably  remain  as  long  as  I  live.  I  have  a  lot  in 
the  cemetery  for  six,  and  it  happens  that  I  have  a  wife 
and  four  children.  My  sons  and  daughters  do  not 
seem  to  be  wanderers,  and  all  of  us  will  probably  be 
buried  here. 

"Before  I  came  to  this  town  I  lived  in  a  place  of 
about  the  same  size,  and  was  a  storekeeper  there,  as  I 
have  always  been  here.  I  inherited  the  business  from 
my  father,  as  I  did  the  house  in  which  I  was  born.  I 
was  entirely  alone  in  the  world,  my  parents  having 
died  in  middle  life.  I  knew  every  one  in  the  town, 
and  as  there  had  been  no  more  against  my  family 
than  there  is  against  the  average  of  respectable  people 
I  was  accepted  everywhere  and  lived  the  usual  life 
of  a  fairly  worthy  and  prosperous  young  man. 

"Up  to  the  time  I  was  twenty-nine  I  had  four  love 
affairs — that  is,  I  was  engaged  to  that  number  of 
—91— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

girls,  but  in  one  way  and  another  I  separated  from  all 
of  them  without  more  harm  than  comes  to  any  good 
girl  who  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  man  if  the 
engagement  is  broken. 

"After  my  fourth  love  affair  I  supposed  I  would 
remain  a  bachelor.  The  people  did  not  think  of  me 
as  a  marrying  man,  and  so  when  I  began  calling  on 
Mary  Ward  at  intervals  it  was  an  affair  of  the  kind 
known  as  platonic,  a  term  I  have  never  quite  under 
stood.  She  knew  I  was  rather  old  and  rather  fickle, 
and  apparently  did  not  expect  any  special  attention, 
but  after  going  with  her  two  years  we  naturally  and 
unconsciously  drifted  into  a  situation  where  we  both 
accepted  marriage  as  a  probability  of  the  future. 

"But  in  spite  of  my  genuine  affection  for  Mary 
Ward  I  fell  in  love  again. 

"It  is  an  uncomfortable  confession  to  make;  but 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  loved  Mary  Ward  sincerely 
I  fell  in  love  with  Mary  Howard,  a  little  country  girl 
whose  people  traded  with  me.  And  I  acquired  the 
habit  of  going  to  see  her,  without  any  intention  of 
being  unfair  to  any  one.  And  finally,  in  the  vague 
way  common  in  love  affairs,  she  came  to  understand 
that  I  intended  to  marry  her,  as  I  would  have  done 
cheerfully  had  it  not  been  for  Mary  Ward. 

"Since  I  am  old  and  this  affair  is  all  in  the  past 
I  will  confess  I  loved  both  of  them;  both  were  neces 
sary  to  my  happiness.     I  could  not  give  up  either. 
—92— 


ASBERRY    MORTON 


"It  happened  that  the  two  girls  did  not  know  each 
other,  as  one  lived  in  town  and  the  other  in  the  coun 
try.  So  I  strolled  over  to  see  Mary  Ward  every  Tues 
day  night,  and  drove  into  the  country  every  Sunday 
to  see  Mary  Howard,  usually  taking  supper  with  the 
family  and  remaining  until  bedtime,  when  I  would 
sneak  home.  I  resolved  to  break  with  one  or  the 
other,  but  it  disturbed  me  to  think  of  either  as  the 
wife  of  another  man.  Besides,  neither  gave  me  the 
slightest  excuse,  not  knowing  I  wanted  it;  so  I  gradu 
ally  got  in  a  little  deeper  with  both.  As  a  rule  coun 
try  girls  are  more  jealous  than  town  girls,  but  Mary 
Howard  was  as  gentle  as  I  could  wish,  as  was  Mary 
Ward.  For  a  wonder,  neither  ever  heard  of  my  per 
fidy,  and  both  treated  me  with  the  consideration  a 
good  woman  lavishes  on  the  man  she  expects  to  marry. 
I  was  always  rather  reserved  about  my  love  affairs, 
and  the  people  did  not  make  me  much  trouble.  But 
I  appreciated  my  own  meanness,  and  worried  about  it. 

"From  going  to  see  Mary  Ward  once  a  week  she 
somehow  arranged  that  I  should  call  twice  a  week. 
I  knew  there  was  bound  to  come  a  clash,  but  finally 
went  to  see  Mary  Ward  every  Friday  night,  as  well  as 
every  Tuesday.  And  in  the  same  indolent  way  I 
found  myself  at  Mary  Howard's  home  in  the  country 
every  Wednesday  night  in  addition  to  every  Sunday 
night.  And  I  remained  late  at  both  places;  to  con 
fess  I  was  in  need  of  sleep  was  to  confess  all,  or  con- 
—93— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

fess  lack  of  affection,  and  I  felt  no  lack  of  that  for 
either. 

"Finally  neither  could  understand  why  I  did  not 
wish  to  see  her  at  least  every  other  evening,  so  my 
health  as  well  as  my  conscience  became  involved. 
Lack  of  sleep  caused  me  to  become  nervous  and  I 
frequently  pretended  illness  as  an  excuse  to  remain 
at  home  and  secure  the  sleep  I  so  much  needed.  I 
actually  did  not  look  well,  and  both  Mary  Ward  and 
Mary  Howard  were  greatly  concerned  about  me.  The 
result  of  it  all  was  I  was  seized  with  an  illness,  which 
worried  them  greatly,  as  it  did  me;  for  I  knew  the 
sword  hanging  over  my  head  was  becoming  heavier, 
and  that  the  thread  suspending  it  was  greatly  worn. 

"During  my  illness  I  received  pretty  notes  from 
both  of  them,  and  both  expressed  a  wish  to  see  me,  to 
do  something  for  me.  But  I  hurriedly  replied  by 
trusted  messengers  that  I  had  every  attention,  which 
was  the  case.  The  elderly  widow  who  kept  house 
for  me  had  been  in  our  family  since  I  was  a  child,  and 
was  very  capable  and  kind.  But  I  feared  that  Mary 
Ward  and  Mary  Howard  might  come  to  see  me,  and 
meet. 

"This  was  what  actually  happened;  this  is  why  I 
am  in  this  town,  a  runaway,  though  there  is  actually 
nothing  against  me  except  that  I  had  two  love  affairs 
at  the  same  time.  It  is  fortunate  the  opposition 
papers  did  not  hear  about  it  during  the  recent  cam- 
—94— 


ASBERRY    MORTON 


paign;  I  spent  many  a  sleepless  night  because  of  the 
fear  that  they  might. 

"One  evening  when  my  illness  had  been  relieved 
by  rest  and  sleep,  and  when  I  was  much  better,  except 
my  guilty  conscience,  the  door  of  my  room  quietly 
opened,  and  Mary  Ward  came  in.  She  was  all  in  a 
tremor,  and  her  devotion  would  have  pleased  me  ex 
cept  that  I  feared  Mary  Howard  would  do  the  same 
thing. 

"Mary  Ward  explained  that  she  was  so  worried 
that  she  could  no  longer  remain  away,  and  that  her 
mother  had  at  last  consented  to  her  coming;  she  felt 
sure  the  people  would  not  object  since  they  knew  we 
were  to  be  married.  So  she  took  off  her  hat  and  said 
she  intended  caring  for  me  until  I  recovered,  express 
ing  the  hope  that  her  determination  would  meet  with 
my  approval. 

"You  know  some  things  are  going  to  happen  before 
they  happen;  I  knew  Mary  Howard  was  liable  to 
come  in,  and  she  did. 

"I  had  said  almost  nothing  to  Mary  Ward  when 
Mary  Howard  came  in,  and  Miss  Ward  explained  to 
the  strange  woman,  with  coolness  and  good  breeding, 
that  she  was  my  promised  wife,  and  felt  it  her  duty 
to  care  for  me-  in  spite  of  conventions. 

"I  knew  there  was  only  one  thing  for  me  to  do,  and 
I  did  that;  I  went  out  of  my  head.  And  when  Mary 
Ward  appealed  to  me  to  verify  her  statement  I  pre- 
—95— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

tended  to  be  unconscious,  and  she  called  the  house 
keeper. 

"Also  the  doctor.  He  was  a  wise  old  scout,  a  par 
ticular  friend  of  mine,  and  when  he  came  understood 
the  situation,  I  think.  I  think  the  housekeeper  also 
suspected  the  truth,  and  what  they  did  to  bring  me 
back  to  consciousness  didn't  hurt,  nor  did  they  send 
out  a  general  alarm. 

"Though  I  had  my  eyes  closed  and  pretended  to 
be  out  of  my  head  I  knew  what  was  going  on;  I  knew 
that  Mary  Howard  accepted  what  Mary  Ward  said 
as  the  truth.  I  knew  that  she  rose,  and  with  as  much 
coolness  and  good  breeding  as  Mary  Ward  had  shown 
said  I  was  a  family  friend ;  that  she  had  merely  called 
to  inquire  how  I  was,  at  the  request  of  her  parents. 
Then  she  quietly  departed. 

"Though  I  realized  that  I  had  terribly  hurt  and 
wronged  Mary  Howard  her  action  was  the  most  agree 
able  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me;  my  election  to 
Congress  was  a  trifle  compared  to  what  Mary  Howard 
did  for  me.  The  long-expected  blow  had  not  fallen; 
I  was  free,  without  humiliation  or  difficulty. 

"I  soon  rallied  as  a  result  of  the  restoratives  given 
me  by  my  friend  the  doctor,  and  Mary  Ward's  devo 
tion  was  really  beautiful.  I  appreciated  it,  too,  but 
could  not  forget  the  greater  service  Mary  Howard  had 
done  me." 

After  looking  at  the  floor  for  a  time  as  if  in  deep 
—96— 


ASBERRY    MORTON 


reflection  Asberry  continued:  "I  married  one  of 
those  girls.  Which  one  do  you  think  I  selected?" 

We  all  refused  to  guess,  pretending  that  we  pre 
ferred  to  hear  the  end  of  the  story;  but  I  had  an  opin 
ion,  and  the  others  confessed  to  me  later  that  they 
had,  and  we  were  all  wrong. 

"I  very  easily  persuaded  Mary  Ward,"  Asberry 
continued,  "that  though  I  appreciated  her  interest  in 
me  it  was  best  for  her  to  return  home,  as  I  was  im 
proving;  and  she  did  this  so  quietly  that  the  incident 
was  never  known. 

"At  first  I  felt  that  Mary  Howard  did  not  greatly 
care  for  me.  But  the  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more 
I  appreciated  her  dignified  behaviour  and  her  action 
in  rescuing  me  without  scandal  from  a  very  bad  situa 
tion.  I  soon  recovered  from  my  illness,  and  went 
to  see  Mary  Ward,  who  seemed  to  have  no  suspicion 
whatever  of  the  true  situation.  She  was  indeed  more 
agreeable  than  ever,  and  I  loved  her  more  devotedly 
than  before.  I  suggested  marriage  earlier  than  we 
had  intended,  which  was  agreeable  to  her. 

"I  had  feared  gossip  about  the  affair,  but  it  never 
developed;  I  was  free.  But  all  the  time  I  was  think 
ing  of  Mary  Howard.  How  was  she  taking  it? 
What  did  her  folks  think?  Apparently  they  had  no 
ill  will,  for  they  came  to  the  store  as  usual,  though 
Mary  herself  never  came. 

"It  is  getting  late,  and  we  should  join  the  ladies, 
—97— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

therefore  I  will  shorten  the  story.  I  wrote  Mary  a 
note,  asking  for  an  interview.  She  did  not  reply  for 
a  week,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  consented  to  see 
me.  I  told  her  everything  as  candidly  as  I  have  told 
you.  In  addition,  I  said  I  could  not  get  along  without 
her.  She  confessed  the  same  thing  to  me,  and  I  re 
sumed  the  old  situation — going  to  see  Mary  Ward 
one  evening,  and  Mary  Howard  the  next.  Finally  I 
could  think  of  but  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  so  I 
sold  out  quietly,  ran  away  with  one  of  the  girls,  and 
appeared  here.  What  became  of  the  other?  I  know 
no  more  than  you  do.  I  have  avoided  news  from  my 
old  town." 

Asberry  stepped  into  the  front  room  while  we  were 
looking  at  each  other  in  astonishment,  and  returned 
with  his  wife. 

"Mary,"  he  said  to  her,  "I  have  been  telling  these 
gentlemen  that  I  love  every  white  hair  in  your  head, 
and  that  you  have  always  been  a  good  wife  to  me." 

Mary  patted  her  husband's  arm  gently,  and  then 
said  gaily:  "Come  out  and  tell  the  girls  that!  " 

And  they  went  away  together,  to  the  front  room. 
We  followed,  and  heard  Mary  say  he  was  the  best 
man  the  Lord  ever  let  live. 


—98— 


BEN     BRADFORD 

Ben  Bradford,  known  to  be  a  little  gay,  says  the 
first  time  he  kissed  a  woman  other  than  his  wife,  he 
felt  as  sneaking  as  he  did  when  he  first  began  buying 
of  Montgomery  Ward  and  Co.  But  Ben  gradually 
became  hardened,  and  many  say  he  now  trades  with 
Sears-Roebuck,  too. 


—99— 


PETE     ROBIDOUX 

In  the  early  days  Pete  Robidoux  operated  a  gen 
eral  store  away  out  on  the  frontier,  where  the  railroad 
ended  on  the  prairie.  Late  one  night  a  party  of  rough 
men  brought  a  horse  thief  into  the  store,  and  told  Mr. 
Robidoux  they  intended  to  hang  him. 

The  weather  was  cold,  and  after  members  of  the 
party  had  dined  on  cove  oysters,  crackers,  cheese  and 
jerked  buffalo  meat,  some  one  suggested  that  they 
warm  up  a  little.  Thereupon  whisky  was  procured, 
and  the  entire  party  began  drinking.  The  prisoner 
joined  in  the  festivities  and  seemed  to  enjoy  himself 
as  much  as  any  one.  By  midnight  all  the  members  of 
the  party  were  drunk  and  good-natured;  but  they 
knew  what  they  were  there  for,  and  told  the  prisoner 
that  they  still  intended  to  hang  him. 

The  prisoner  tried  to  argue  his  captors  out  of  the 
notion,  and  they  wrangled  for  an  hour  with  him ;  they 
wanted  to  make  him  admit  that  they  were  right  in  their 
determination  to  hang  him,  but  he  was  stubborn  and 
contended  that  though  he  had  taken  the  horse  it  really 
belonged  to  him,  and  he  could  prove  it. 

But  he  failed  to  prove  it  to  the  satisfaction  of  those 
concerned,  and  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  they  all 
staggered  out,  carrying  a  rope,  but  all  very  noisy  and 
—100— 


PETE     ROBIDOUX 


good-natured.  In  ten  minutes  they  came  back  saying 
they  could  not  find  a  telegraph  pole  suitable  for  a 
hanging;  they  had  really  found  a  pole,  but  no  one 
could  climb  it  to  get  the  rope  over  the  arms. 

Some  one  then  suggested  that  the  prisoner  be  shot, 
as  the  night  was  very  cold  for  a  hanging.  But  no 
one  cared  to  shoot  him  in  cold  blood,  and  it  was  then 
suggested  that  they  all  take  a  shot  at  him  at  the  same 
time. 

This  execution  could  not  be  arranged,  either,  so 
one  genius  had  a  happy  thought,  and  asked  the  pris 
oner  to  shoot  himself.  The  man  who  had  the  happy 
thought  said  the  members  of  the  lynching  party  were 
all  good  citizens  with  families,  and  hated  to  have 
blood  on  their  hands,  which  could  be  avoided  if  the 
prisoner  would  be  reasonable. 

Whereupon  the  prisoner  said  that  much  as  he  ad 
mired  his  new  friends,  and  respected  the  majesty  of 
the  law,  he  did  not  care  to  go  that  far.  So  they  kept 
on  drinking,  and  arguing  with  the  prisoner  that  since 
he  was  to  lose  his  life  anyway  he  might  as  well  be  a 
good  fellow  and  shoot  himself.  They  said  they  had 
fed  him,  and  given  him  his  turn  at  the  jug  every  time 
it  was  passed,  which  he  admitted;  but  he  was  stub 
born  and  said  he  could  not  see  his  way  clear  to  oblige 
them. 

By  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  they  were  all  asleep 
on  the  floor  of  the  store,  on  buffalo  robes.  When 
—101— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

they  woke  it  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the 
citizens  stirring;  so  an  hour  later  the  members  of 
the  party  rode  away,  and  Mr.  Robidoux  never  heard 
what  became  of  the  horse  thief.  All  Mr.  Robidoux 
knows  is  that  he  went  away  with  his  captors,  and  was 
still  arguing  that  though  he  took  the  horse  it  belonged 
to  him,  and  he  could  prove  it.  Also,  that  the  sugges 
tion  that  he  shoot  himself  was  unreasonable. 


—102— 


BILL     HARMON 

During  the  winter  days,  when  there  isn't  much  to 
do,  a  favourite  gathering  place  for  the  men  is  Bill  Har 
mon's  harness  shop.  It  was  Bill's  habit  to  make  up  a 
stock  of  harness  in  advance  for  the  spring  trade;  so, 
though  busy  in  winter,  he  was  able  to  talk  while  he 
worked  and  enjoyed  the  idlers  who  made  his  shop  a 
meeting  place. 

And  Bill  was  a  good  talker  and  had  ideas.  He 
had  been  discussing  for  years  the  questions  of  the  day, 
and  picking  up  a  fact  here  and  another  there  had 
accumulated  a  fund  of  information  that  was  really 
unusual.  Of  all  the  talkers  who  gathered  at  his  shop 
not  one  was  so  good  as  Bill  and  they  all  quit  when  he 
began;  a  rare  tribute,  for  men  usually  interrupt  to 
express  their  own  ideas. 

When  the  bond  election  came  on  Cap.  Stabler  went 
privately  to  Bill  and  suggested  that  he  deliver  a  public 
speech  against  the  bonds.  The  railroad  had  imported 
a  lot  of  paid  orators,  and  they  were  having  an  in 
fluence.  Cap.  Stabler  and  Bill  and  most  of  the  regu 
lars  at  the  harness  shop  were  opposed  to  the  bonds; 
and  Cap.  Stabler  urged  that  Bill  make  a  speech. 

"I've  heard  you  talk  for  years,"  Cap.  said  to  him, 
—103— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

"and  I  know  you  can  sway  the  people.     None  of  these 
paid  hirelings  of  the  railroad  can  equal  you." 

Bill  said  he  couldn't  talk  in  public;  that  he  had 
thought  of  it,  and  cold  chills  ran  all  over  him. 

"Don't  expect  it  of  me,  Cap.,"  Bill  said;  "I'd  like 
to  make  a  speech  and  have  an  influence  in  the  com 
munity;  I  don't  deny  I've  often  thought  of  it,  but 
you'll  have  to  excuse  me.  If  I  should  attempt  to 
stand  before  an  audience  I  should  die  of  fright." 

But  Cap.  Stabler  kept  at  Bill,  and  one  day  he 
promised.  So  Cap.  got  out  bills  announcing  a  citi 
zens'  meeting  at  City  Hall,  when  the  important  issues 
of  the  day  would  be  discussed  by  able  speakers. 

Nate  Somers,  who  played  solo  alto  in  the  band,  was 
opposed  to  the  bonds,  too,  and  one  of  the  regulars  at 
Bill's  shop;  and  being  let  into  the  secret  said  he  be 
lieved  he  could  get  the  band  boys  to  turn  out  for 
nothing. 

The  night  for  the  speaking  came  on,  and  a  tre 
mendous  crowd  was  present;  Nate  Somers  had 
coaxed  the  band  boys  to  turn  out  for  nothing,  and 
they  played  four  of  the  town  favourites  outside  the 
hall  and  two  more  inside. 

Cap.  Stabler  and  Bill  went  in  early,  and  Bill  sat 
down  in  the  front  row,  while  Cap.  took  a  seat  on  the 
platform;  he  thought  a  good  deal  of  his  own  ability  as 
a  talker,  so  he  often  made  himself  chairman  of  a  meet 
ing  without  any  action  on  the  part  of  those  present. 
—104-^- 


BILL    HARMON 


After  there  had  been  a  round  or  two  of  stamping 
and  clapping,  indicating  that  the  people  were  impa 
tient  to  hear  the  able  speakers  promised,  Cap.  Stab 
ler  stepped  to  the  front  of  the  platform  and  said  a 
crisis  in  the  town's  affairs  had  arisen,  that  certain 
corrupt  influences  were  showing  themselves  and  that 
an  able  speaker  was  present  to  warn  the  people. 

"I  refer,  fellow  citizens,"  Cap.  concluded,  "to  a 
citizen  you  all  know  and  respect;  a  gentleman  of  in 
telligence  and  ability  to  express  his  thoughts;  a  man 
whose  words  are  respected  by  those  who  know  him.  I 
take  pleasure  in  introducing  Colonel  William  Peyton 
Harmon." 

The  people  all  knew  Bill  Harmon,  but  they  did 
not  know  Colonel  William  Peyton  Harmon;  so  they 
cheered  and  applauded  and  were  anxious  to  hear  the 
new  man;  they  had  long  ago  become  tired  of  the  regu 
lar  town  orators  and  wanted  to  hear  arguments  they 
had  never  heard  before. 

Cap.  Stabler  noticed  that  Bill  was  sitting  on  the 
front  seat  with  his  head  bowed  on  his  breast,  but  that 
he  made  no  move  to  take  the  platform.  So  Cap.  went 
down  and  spoke  to  him;  touched  him. 

He  was  dead;  scared  to  death. 


—105— 


DOC     ROBINSON 

I  have  noticed  that  the  people  take  as  much  delight 
in  praising  a  worthless  man  as  they  take  in  abusing 
a  respectable  one.  People  say  Doc  Robinson,  the 
town  drunkard,  was  once  a  noted  surgeon  in  London; 
that  he  was  engaged  to  a  beautiful  young  lady  of 
New  York,  but  gave  her  up  because  his  parents  ob 
jected,  and  thus  went  to  the  dogs;  that  he  has  the 
best  education  of  any  man  in  town;  that  he  is  a  man 
of  fine  intellect;  that  he  is  a  younger  son  of  a  titled 
family  in  England,  and  that  when  his  brother  dies 
he  will  become  a  duke. 

I  looked  Doc  up  and  discovered  that  the  only  not 
able  thing  that  ever  happened  in  his  life  was  that 
he  attended  a  veterinary  college  in  Canada,  where  he 
was  born  on  a  farm  and  where  he  lived  until  he  came 
to  this  country  to  make  horse  liniment,  the  basis  of 
which,  alcohol,  he  sweetened  and  drank,  and  thus  be 
came  a  drunkard. 


—106— 


JIM     SHIELDS 

Doc  Shields  attended  the  recent  Firemen's  Ball 
without  his  wife;  and,  what  is  more,  his  wife  was  at 
home  sick;  so  sick,  indeed,  that  the  neighbour  women 
were  compelled  to  go  in  and  sit  with  her  while  her 
husband  was  dancing.  The  women  at  the  ball  knew 
Mrs.  Shields  had  been  very  poorly  for  several  months 
and  did  not  welcome  Doc;  but  Maria  Dunlap,  who  is 
old  and  plain,  accepted  an  invitation  to  dance  with 
him. 

While  they  were  engaged  in  a  waltz  Maria  thought 
it  only  polite  to  inquire  about  Mrs.  Shields,  so  she 
asked:  "Mr.  Shields,  how  is  your  wife?" 

Doc  is  not  a  real  doctor;  they  call  him  that  because 
he  once  bought  a  drug  store,  and  failed;  and  as  he 
whirled  in  the  dance  Doc  replied  to  Maria's  question 
about  the  condition  of  his  wife:  "She  is  a  very  sick 
woman.  I  don't  believe  she'll  live  till  morning." 


—107— 


BEN     THOMPSON 

When  Ben  Thompson  married  Alice  Hurley  he  was 
forty-one  years  old,  and  Alice  twenty-nine.  The  dis 
parity  in  their  ages  caused  people  to  make  a  complete 
investigation,  and  those  were  the  official  figures:  41 
and  29.  But  within  a  year  people  began  exaggerat 
ing  Ben's  age  upward,  and  Alice's  downward,  and 
this  they  have  kept  up  until  I  heard  this  week  that 
Ben  was  sixty  when  he  married,  and  Alice  nineteen. 


—108— 


JERRY     SHACKELFORD 

Many  years  ago  a  man  named  Jerry  Shackelford 
lived  in  a  lonely  house  in  the  woods  south  of  town. 
His  wife  asked  him  one  afternoon  to  get  an  armful  of 
oven  wood;  she  was  baking  and  wanted  wood  to  heat 
the  oven  of  the  cookstove  to  the  best  advantage.  But 
he  delayed  going,  and  his  wife  finally  spoke  to  him 
sharply,  as  her  bread  was  ready  to  bake.  Jerry  was 
very  sensitive,  and  the  reproof  made  him  so  mad  that 
he  went  out  of  the  house,  and  for  fifteen  years  noth 
ing  was  heard  of  him. 

His  wife  continued  living  in  the  old  house,  and  the 
neighbours  told  the  story  of  the  runaway  in  whispers. 
They  noted  that  through  every  night  a  light  burned 
in  the  window,  as  though  inviting  Jerry  to  return. 
Mrs.  Shackelford  loved  her  husband  as  much  as  wives 
usually  do;  the  trouble  was  that  Jerry  was  more  sen 
sitive  than  most  husbands. 

One  cold  blustery  night  as  Mrs.  Shackelford  sat 
with  her  feet  in  the  oven  of  the  cookstove,  to  keep 
them  warm,  the  front  door  opened  and  Jerry  walked 
in  carrying  an  armful  of  oven  wood,  which  he  de 
posited  in  the  wood  box  behind  the  cookstove. 

Mrs.  Shackelford  was  glad  to  see  her  husband  and 
welcomed  the  chance  to  make  up,  but  she  thought  she 
—109— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

should  in  some  way  indicate  that  his  long  absence  had 
been  unusual  and  improper,  so  she  said:  "Well,  I 
will  say  you  have  been  a  long  time  about  it!" 

That  made  Jerry  mad  again,  he  was  so  sensitive; 
so  he  went  out  of  the  house  again  and  has  never  been 
heard  of  since. 


—110— 


CAP.     HANSEN 

When  the  rebellion  broke  out  Cap.  Hansen 
promptly  enlisted  and  came  back  a  captain. 

Cap.  Hansen  was  such  a  hard  worker  that  he  had 
no  time  to  acquire  an  education,  so  about  all  he  knew 
of  the  classics  was  the  saying,  "Beyond  the  Alps  lies 
Italy,"  though  after  the  war  he  was  occasionally  heard 
to  say,  "All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  and  prob 
ably  knew  in  a  general  way  from  hearing  it  talked 
about  so  much  that  Byron  awoke  one  morning  and 
found  himself  famous. 

Cap.  Hansen  somehow  found  time  to  marry  and 
had  a  large  family  of  children,  all  of  whom  he  sent 
to  college  as  they  became  old  enough,  but  continued  to 
work  very  hard  himself.  When  he  felt  tired  or  dis 
couraged  he  quoted  his  favourite  saying,  "Beyond  the 
Alps  lies  Italy,"  and  that  seemed  to  make  him  feel 
better. 

There  never  was  a  better  man  than  Cap.  Hansen, 
but  people  finally  began  laughing  at  him,  he  worked 
so  hard.  They  said  he  was  an  old  fool,  and  criticized 
him  because  he  did  not  get  something  out  of  his 
money.  After  passing  seventy  he  began  to  get  out  of 
shape;  his  hands  were  crooked  from  toil  and  there 
—111— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

was  a  stoop  in  his  shoulders.     It  was  pitiful  to  see 
him  hurrying  about,  feeble  and  old. 

Cap.  Hansen  finally  crossed  the  Alps  and  reached 
Italy  and  the  age  of  seventy-nine.  There  was  a  con 
test  over  his  will,  in  which  one  faction  in  the  family 
contended  that  he  had  been  crazy  twelve  years;  the 
fact  also  came  out  that  he  had  worked  so  hard  to  make 
money  that  he  had  neglected  what  he  had,  and  there 
wasn't  a  great  deal  to  quarrel  over. 


—112— 


HENRY     WULFBURGER 

What  citizen  of  this  town  is  most  highly  spoken  of? 
Henry  Wulfburger,  the  iceman,  who  is  so  polite  and 
capable  that  no  one  can  get  his  customers  away  from 
him.  He  isn't  very  good  looking  and  not  a  fastidious 
dresser;  but  he  delivers  ice  promptly  and  puts  things 
back  in  the  refrigerator  as  he  found  them. 

Henry  Wulfburger  owns  one  of  the  best  homes  in 
town,  and  they  say  he  receives  a  salary  so  large  that 
nothing  is  said  about  it  before  the  other  employes  of 
the  ice  plant.  Who  do  you  suppose  will  be  manager 
of  the  ice  plant  and  the  big  iceman  of  the  town  in  a 
few  years?  Everybody  knows  it  will  be  Henry  Wulf 
burger. 

Henry  manages  to  do  some  good  as  he  goes  along. 
Nate  Salsbury  is  his  assistant  on  the  ice  wagon. 
Nate  comes  of  very  shiftless  native  stock,  but  Henry 
Wulfburger  is  making  a  man  of  him.  If  the  people 
will  keep  out  of  it  Nate  will  be  saved;  there  is  some 
grumbling  because  Nate  gets  only  six  dollars  a  week 
and  works  long  hours;  but  the  young  man  is  learning 
more  than  the  ice  business.  He  is  learning  industry, 
politeness,  honesty  and  efficiency  from  the  example  of 
Henry  Wulfburger.  Nate  will  get  more  wages  in 
plenty  of  time;  the  other  iceman  will  attend  to  that 
in  case  his  present  employer  neglects  it. 
—113— 


GEORGE     PENDLETON 

George  Pendleton  came  to  town  twelve  years  ago 
and  opened  a  grocery  store.  He  has  always  been  a 
selfish  man,  and  the  other  storekeepers  at  first  laughed 
at  him;  but  he  turned  out  to  be  capable  and  they  soon 
began  abusing  him.  He  was  a  tremendous  worker, 
and  instead  of  joining  the  local  trust  and  making  just 
a  living  he  went  after  business  and  made  mo*ney. 
Many  of  the  storekeepers  were  becoming  careless. 
George  Pendleton  caused  them  to  straighten  up. 
There  was  a  gentlemen's  agreement  among  the  mer 
chants,  and  their  prices  were  too  high.  George 
Pendleton  reduced  prices  and  brought  trade  to  town 
from  a  larger  area.  We  had  stores  about  which 
people  grumbled ;  now  we  point  to  them  with  pride. 

All  this  good  was  accomplished  by  a  selfish  man 
who  had  no  other  ambition  than  to  make  money.  He 
gave  liberally  to  every  worthy  object — really  as  an 
advertisement  for  his  business  and  to  make  friends; 
I  have  heard  him  grumble  at  some  of  the  hold-ups — 
but  his  main  object  was  to  make  money.  He  built  a 
business  house,  and  a  good  one;  his  rivals  followed 
his  lead.  He  built  a  residence;  his  rivals  followed 
him  again.  He  felt  the  need  of  better  facilities  for 
doing  business,  and  got  them,  incidentally  benefiting 
—114— 


GEORGE     PENDLETON 


the  town.  He  was  a  temperate  man,  and  some  of  his 
rivals  who  had  been  drinking  too  much  reformed. 
He  was  a  polite  man,  and  his  rivals,  who  were  a  little 
brusque,  recovered. 

I  know  of  no  man  who  has  actually  done  more  for 
the  town  than  George  Pendleton. 


—115— 


COLONEL     ANDY     MILLER 

When  I  went  downtown  in  the  morning  I  heard 
Colonel  Andy  Miller  was  dead,  and  everywhere  dur 
ing  the  day  his  death  was  discussed.  Most  of  the  men 
agreed  he  was  the  best  citizen  we  had;  I  have  heard 
them  say  the  same  thing  of  other  friends  who  have 
died  within  the  year,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
enthusiasm  for  a  monument  over  his  grave,  to  be  built 
by  public  subscription. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  Colonel  Miller's  house. 
Mrs.  Potter  was  there,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  that 
I  was  not  expected  to  see  Mrs.  Miller,  who  was  pros 
trated  with  grief. 

Three  or  four  other  men  came  in,  and  we  discussed 
the  colonel's  life.  All  of  us  remembered  some  inci 
dent  that  seemed  appropriate,  which  we  told  in  low 
voices.  In  the  room  adjoining  the  one  in  which  we 
sat  was  the  body,  packed  in  ice.  The  dripping  of  the 
water  was  very  disagreeable. 

After  we  had  discussed  the  colonel  I  noticed  that 
there  was  a  disposition  to  discuss  the  mystery  of 
death.  Every  one  said  something,  and  we  all  ex 
pressed  the  sentiment  in  about  the  same  way;  there  did 
not  seem  to  be  anything  new  to  say  on  the  subject. 
Most  of  the  callers  said  they  would  willingly  stay  all 
night  if  necessary,  but  added  that  they  would  rather 
not  if  other  arrangements  could  be  made,  and  gave 
—116— 


COLONEL    ANDY    MILLER 


various  excuses.  It  turned  out  that  Mrs.  Potter  in 
tended  staying;  it  was  unnecessary  for  any  of  us  to 
remain. 

The  colonel  and  Mrs.  Potter  were  not  friends  dur 
ing  his  life,  but  she  seemed  to  have  charge  of  the  re 
mains.  I  was  told  that  she  arrived  at  the  house  a 
few  minutes  before  Colonel  Andy's  death.  Mrs. 
Potter  is  usually  present  when  there  is  a  death  in  the 
town,  and  takes  charge  of  the  funeral.  The  under 
taker  goes  to  her,  and  she  arranges  about  the  pall 
bearers.  When  she  is  not  in  the  room  where  the 
body  lies  she  is  upstairs  with  members  of  the  family, 
where  few  are  admitted.  If  anything  is  wanted  Mrs. 
Potter  gets  it,  and  if  a  question  is  to  be  decided  she 
decides  it;  first  consulting  with  the  family,  I  suppose. 

It  was  an  unworthy  thought  but  it  occurred  to  me 
that  Mrs.  Potter  enjoyed  being  there  and  taking  charge 
of  everything.  She  is  of  little  importance  at  any 
other  time,  and  disappears  from  public  view  after  a 
funeral,  but  we  all  hear  of  her  again  as  soon  as  there 
is  another  death.  She  rarely  visits  any  home  until  it 
is  generally  agreed  that  a  sickness  will  prove  fatal, 
and  her  coming  nearly  always  sets  the  members  of 
the  family  to  crying;  they  know  it  will  not  be  long 
before  death  enters  the  house.  Mrs.  Potter  does  not 
like  me,  but  I  feel  sure  that  when  it  is  agreed  I  cannot 
live  many  hours  longer  the  front  door  will  open 
quietly  and  Mrs.  Potter  will  come  in. 
—117— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

In  a  small  town  most  people  attend  funerals  as  a 
mark  of  respect,  and  I  nearly  always  meet  Mrs.  Pot 
ter;  she  doesn't  seem  to  like  people  until  after  they 
are  dead.  She  was  married  before  she  came  here, 
but  no  one  knows  what  became  of  her  husband. 
Everybody  would  like  to  know  whether  she  left  him 
or  whether  he  left  her  or  if  he  is  dead,  but  we  are 
afraid  to  ask. 

At  funerals  Mrs.  Potter  directs  who  shall  enter  the 
first  carriage,  who  the  second,  who  the  third,  and  so 
on.  After  all  is  arranged  to  her  satisfaction  she  en 
ters  a  carriage  herself,  and  is  the  first  to  arrive  at  the 
grave;  she  must  be  there  to  arrange  things.  She 
knows  what  must  be  done  with  the  floral  emblems; 
some  are  taken  back  to  the  house  and  others  are  left 
at  the  grave.  She  remains  to  see  the  grave  filled  up, 
all  the  others  driving  away  as  soon  as  the  coffin  is 
lowered  and  the  services  are  over. 

Colonel  Andy  Miller  was  a  prominent  man,  aggres 
sive  and  successful,  but  there  was  always  something 
about  his  family  life  that  didn't  suit  the  women. 
Though  it  was  understood  that  the  colonel  and  his 
wife  didn't  get  along,  no  one  knew  much  about  the 
particulars.  He  had  a  mean  way  of  talking  about 
marriage  that  gave  notice  that  he  wasn't  very  well 
satisfied  with  his  own,  and  was  a  cynic  about  women— 
another  mark  of  a  dissatisfied  husband.  When  the 
colonel  and  his  wife  were  with  others  he  had  a  sharp 
—118— 


COLONEL    ANDY    MILLER 


way  of  saying  things  directed  at  her  in  a  distant  way ; 
and  she  seemed  timid,  as  though  fearing  he  might 
begin  a  tirade  against  her  in  public.  People  who 
passed  the  Miller  home  late  at  night  told  of  hearing 
violent  quarrels.  Their  two  daughters  were  married 
and  living  in  a  distant  state,  and  very  much  to  the  sur 
prise  of  every  one  it  was  announced  that  they  would 
not  be  able  to  attend  their  father's  funeral,  owing  to 
illness. 

Mrs.  Miller  had  a  few  friends,  women  who  were 
not  very  popular  themselves,  and  who  seemed  glad  of 
a  chance  to  get  into  the  big  Miller  home,  with  its 
lavish  furniture.  Mrs.  Miller  had  told  these  women, 
and  somehow  the  story  gained  circulation,  that  she  had 
never  had  any  peace  except  when  the  colonel  was 
away  in  the  army.  He  made  money  and  got  along 
in  the  world,  but  seemed  to  hate  his  home  because 
his  wife  was  in  it.  When  their  daughters  were  mar 
ried  the  Millers  made  much  of  the  weddings  and  en 
tertained  lavishly,  but  Mrs.  Miller  dressed  like  the 
furniture  in  the  house,  the  women  said,  and  com 
mented  on  it  when  they  returned  home.  The  men 
accepted  the  colonel,  and  he  was  a  man  among  men, 
but  somehow  the  women  balked  at  Mrs.  Miller,  but 
without  saying  much  about  it. 

At  the  funeral  Mrs.  Miller  remained  upstairs  dur 
ing  the  services,  with  Mrs.  Potter.  The  house  was 
full  of  women  and  the  yard  full  of  men,  but  the 
—119— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

absence  of  any  member  of  the  family  in  the  room 
where  the  services  were  held  provoked  the  unspoken 
comment  which  frequently  goes  round  on  serious  oc 
casions.  I  knew  that  few  women  had  been  upstairs 
to  see  Mrs.  Miller,  and  that  these  were  those  who  had 
themselves  been  neglected  by  society. 

When  we  were  ready  to  start  for  the  cemetery  Mrs. 
Potter,  who  had  charge  of  everything,  waved  me  into 
the  carriage  in  which  Mrs.  Miller  rode. 

On  the  way  Mrs.  Miller  looked  steadily  out  of  the 
carriage  window  without  speaking;  she  was  going  over 
her  life,  it  seemed.  When  we  stood  beside  the  grave 
she  didn't  look  at  it  or  at  the  coffin  or  listen  to  the 
service;  she  was  looking  at  the  hazy  distance  through 
her  black  veil,  trying  to  decide  why  Andy  and  the 
neighbours  didn't  like  her. 

When  we  rode  slowly  home  Mrs.  Miller  was  still 
silent  and  still  trying  to  solve  her  problems.  At  fre 
quent  intervals  she  took  a  long  breath  in  the  peculiar 
way  which  indicates  a  cessation  of  weeping;  she 
seemed  hard  and  bitter,  as  though  thinking  of  what 
she  might  say  in  her  defence  if  her  husband  were 
not  dead. 

Reaching  her  house  I  assisted  her  to  alight,  and 
she  staggered  a  little  as  we  went  up  the  walk.  Mrs. 
Potter  opened  the  front  door  and  met  her;  they  dis 
appeared  together,  and  I  returned  to  my  neglected 
work. 

—120— 


BUD     MOFFETT 

In  the  river  hills  west  of  town  seven  out  of  ten 
farmers'  wives  bake  biscuits  three  times  a  day.  Bud 
Moffett,  a  young  farmer  from  that  section,  went  to 
the  city  to  accept  a  job.  But  his  health  soon  became 
poor;  in  the  course  of  six  months  many  said  he  was 
crazy,  and  there  was  much  worry  about  him  in  his 
old  neighbourhood  when  he  returned. 

His  grandmother  after  looking  at  him  said: 
"The  trouble  with  the  poor  boy  is  he  has  been  eating 
light  bread." 

So  they  gave  him  hot  biscuits  three  times  a  day, 
and  he  recovered. 


—121— 


MILT     SAYER 

People  used  to  say  Milt  Sayer  was  naturally  mean 
and  that  his  father  was  mean  before  him.  The  Sayers 
have  lived  here  ever  since  the  town  was  started  and  the 
very  old  men  say  Milt's  grandfather  never  paid  any 
attention  to  the  city  ordinances  either.  City  or 
dinances  are  intended  mainly  to  regulate  strangers, 
anyway,  and  Milt  Sayer  took  pleasure  in  violating 
them.  In  fact,  that  was  about  the  only  pleasure  he 
did  take,  for  he  never  went  anywhere  except  to  trade 
for  something  that  would  annoy  his  neighbours.  He 
once  traded  for  a  mule,  though  he  had  no  use  for  it 
except  that  it  brayed  all  night  and  made  the  neigh 
bours  mad.  The  neighbours  complained  to  the  city 
marshal,  but  he  couldn't  do  anything — at  least  he 
never  did.  Whenever  a  citizen  had  a  grievance  it 
was  easy  to  induce  the  city  council  to  pass  an  or 
dinance  to  suppress  it,  though  it  never  did  much  good. 

Most  people  kept  chickens  and  let  them  run  at  large, 
which  was  against  a  city  ordinance,  but  they  mostly 
kept  a  mixture  which  was  mainly  inoffensive.  Milt 
Sayer  made  a  specialty  of  Langshans.  The  roosters 
of  this  breed  almost  shake  the  earth  when  they  crow 
and  have  hoarse  voices  which  are  very  disagreeable 
at  midnight  and  just  before  day.  Milt  kept  twice 
—122— 


MILT    SAYER 


as  many  roosters  as  he  needed  in  a  barnyard  cluttered 
up  with  old  wagons  and  buggies  he  never  used.  In 
the  barn  he  nearly  always  had  a  pup  that  cried  all 
night,  and  the  water  bonds  were  defeated  largely 
because  Milt  favoured  them. 

There  wasn't  a  man  in  town  who  hadn't  threatened 
to  go  to  Milt  and  ask  him  outright  why  he  was  so 
mean,  but  no  one  ever  did.  So  he  drifted  along  like 
other  people,  except  that  his  wife  and  children  talked 
meaner  about  him.  Usually  a  man's  wife  and  chil 
dren  suffer  a  good  deal  before  they  talk  about  him  to 
the  neighbours,  but  Milt  was  so  notorious  that  nearly 
every  time  the  school  children  came  home  they  had 
something  new  to  tell  about  Milt  they  had  heard  from 
the  Sayer  children.  He  choked  their  mother,  they 
said,  and  though  no  marks  were  ever  seen  the  people 
liked  to  repeat  these  stories.  Milt  was  the  favourite 
town  bad  man  and  every  time  people  sat  on  their 
porches  in  the  evening  they  began  the  gossip  by  in 
quiring  if  he  had  done  anything  new  to  rouse  their 
indignation. 

Ed  Harris  used  to  say  Mrs.  Sayer  could  hold  up  her 
end  in  a  row  with  her  husband,  though  it  was  the  cus 
tom  to  say  Milt  was  very  rough  with  his  wife.  Ed 
said  that  early  one  morning  just  at  daylight  he  went  to 
the  depot  to  catch  Number  58,  the  flyer.  It  didn't 
stop  regularly,  but  usually  took  water  at  a  tank  a 
hundred  yards  above  the  depot,  and  Ed  ran  the  risk 
—123— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

of  catching  it,  as  he  was  anxious  to  get  up  to  the 
county  seat  early  and  return  home  on  38,  the  accom 
modation  train.  Ed  says  he  heard  Milt  and  his  wife 
quarrelling  as  he  passed  their  house. 

"And  believe  me,"  Ed  used  to  say,  "the  madam 
wasn't  getting  the  worst  of  it!" 

Because  of  her  trouble  with  her  husband  Mrs.  Sayer 
was  very  bitter  about  women  not  being  allowed  to 
vote. 

It  was  known  Mrs.  Sayer  had  been  to  see  Lawyer 
Ege,  who,  the  people  used  to  say,  took  divorce  cases 
free  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  particulars  first 
and  telling  about  them. 

The  particular  meanness  that  caused  Milt's  wife 
finally  to  rebel  was  never  known.  He  had  been  guilty 
of  so  much  that  maybe  it  was  an  accumulation,  but 
anyway  after  Mrs.  Sayer  had  told  the  women  for 
years  that  she  would  not  stand  it  another  moment  she 
actually  went  to  Lawyer  Ege  and  said  she  wanted 
a  divorce. 

Lawyer  Ege  acted  very  mysterious,  as  though  he 
relied  on  some  particular  evidence  he  knew  about  that 
none  of  the  rest  of  us  did,  but  he  never  told  anything 
we  hadn't  heard  for  years;  and  when  the  case  actually 
came  up,  and  a  good  many  went  to  the  county  seat 
to  hear  the  evidence,  they  didn't  learn  anything  new. 
Mrs.  Sayer  took  the  stand  and  told  the  old  stories, 
but  Milt  wasn't  present — he  had  toM  his  lawyer  not 
—124— 


MILT    SAYER 


to  resist — and  didn't  seem  to  care  what  his  wife  told 
on  him. 

They  hadn't  much  to  divide;  about  everything  Milt 
had  was  mortgaged  to  the  bank,  and  all  Mrs.  Sayer 
got  was  enough  to  take  her  and  the  children  to  some 
relations  she  had  back  East.  In  accusing  Milt  of  be 
ing  stingy  people  used  to  say  he  was  rich,  which  made 
the  story  better,  but  he  really  hadn't  anything  to  speak 
of.  Lawyer  Ege  made  a  complete  search,  but  found 
little.  Mrs.  Sayer  always  thought  she  would  get  a 
good  deal  of  alimony,  and  Lawyer  Ege  had  promised 
her  at  least  forty  dollars  a  month  to  live  on.  But 
Lawyer  Ege  couldn't  squeeze  blood  out  of  a  turnip 
and  about  all  Mrs.  Sayer  actually  got  was  freedom. 
She  said  her  relations  had  always  wanted  her  to  leave 
him  and  that  she  only  hesitated  because  of  the  chil 
dren.  Besides,  she  feared  that  if  she  ever  left  Milt 
he  would  go  to  the  devil. 

But  Milt  didn't  miss  his  family  as  much  as  Mrs. 
Sayer  thought  he  would.  He  took  some  of  his  meals 
at  the  restaurant,  but  mainly  lived  at  home.  He 
turned  the  mule  in  on  the  mortgage,  as  mules  were 
high  that  year,  and  got  rid  of  his  hogs,  as  he  said  that 
living  alone  he  could  buy  bacon  cheaper  than  he  could 
raise  it.  The  money  he  gave  his  wife  he  had  raised 
by  increasing  the  mortgage  on  his  house  and,  to  the 
surprise  of  everybody,  he  paid  the  interest.  As  he  no 
longer  had  children  he  got  rid  of  pups  and  one  day 
—125— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

shot  his  dogs  because  they  had  eaten  his  big  Langshan 
roosters.  Altogether  Milt  improved  and  was  better 
natured.  He  was  even  known  to  attend  the  band  con 
certs  at  City  Park  and  once  he  called  on  a  neighbour 
in  the  evening  to  sit  a  while.  A  few  of  the  neighbour 
women,  knowing  he  must  long  for  home  cooking,  in 
vited  him  to  an  occasional  meal  and  he  acted  politer 
than  they  expected  he  would. 

Two  of  the  older  boys  came  to  see  their  father  in 
course  of  time  and,  to  the  surprise  of  everybody,  re 
mained  with  him.  Mrs.  Sayer  occasionally  wrote  to 
her  old  neighbours  asking  if  Milt  had  gone  to  the  devil 
yet,  but  he  actually  seemed  to  be  travelling  the  other 
way.  He  even  went  to  the  banker  and  arranged  to 
send  his  former  wife  a  small  allowance.  He  wasn't 
compelled  to  do  this,  but  said  he  was  better  satisfied 
to  do  it. 

The  improved  manners  of  Milt  Sayer  actually  be 
came  the  talk  of  the  town  during  one  hot-weather 
period  when  there  was  a  lull  and  porch  parties  talked 
of  little  else  that  summer.  He  had  always  paid  his 
debts  after  a  fashion,  but  he  became  prompt  and  an 
old  junk  shop  he  owned  started  to  make  money. 
There  was  even  a  contest  between  the  banks  over  his 
account,  and  when  the  State  Savings  won  over  the 
First  there  was  some  criticism  of  the  methods  em 
ployed  by  the  winner.  One  day  a  man  who  knew 
Milt  rather  better  than  the  rest  of  us  said  to  him: 
—126— 


MILT    SAYER 


"I  suppose  that  now  you  are  single  you'll  be  taking 
notice  again." 

But  Milt  didn't  seem  to  be  amused.  He  became 
serious  and  said  something  about  his  better  nature 
being  roused.  People  didn't  understand  that  remark 
for  a  time,  but  admitted  it  was  true.  Wherever  he 
went  you  saw  one  or  both  of  his  sons  and  they  im 
proved  as  much  as  their  father.  Both  were  doing  well 
in  school  and  during  the  summer  vacation  they  worked 
round  the  junk  shop. 

It  was  along  in  the  winter  following  the  summer 
when  Milt  was  the  town's  sensation  and  about  a  month 
after  he  said  his  better  nature  was  roused  when  he 
did  the  most  surprising  thing.  He  arrived  one  eve 
ning  on  38,  the  accommodation  train,  accompanied  by 
his  former  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  remarried  the 
day  before.  About  all  he  would  say  in  explanation 
was  that  he  thought  he  would  like  it  rather  better  that 
way;  and  after  that  people  dropped  him,  except  that 
they  watched  narrowly  to  see  how  the  experiment 
came  out.  Some  thought  they  would  get  along  all 
right  since  Milt's  better  nature  had  been  roused,  but 
others  had  their  doubts. 


—127— 


WALT     WILLIAMS 


Will  Marsh  went  into  ^alt  Williams'  grocery  and 
bought  a  sack  of  apples.  Walt  not  only  helped  Bill 
eat  them  but  invited  every  one  who  came  in  to  have  an 
apple  out  of  Bill's  sack.  Walt  has  been  the  victim  of 
tasters  for  years,  and  was  getting  even. 


—128— 


BELLE     DAVIS  ON 

The  school-teacher,  Miss  Belle  Davison,  very  gentle, 
womanly  and  popular,  reached  forty-three  without  a 
love  affair,  and  was  a  credit  to  her  admirable  sex  in 
every  way;  few  had  ever  lived  in  the  neighbourhood 
who  were  equally  liked. 

But  one  day  a  scamp  of  a  fellow  began  paying  her 
attention,  and  she  became  madly  infatuated  with  him; 
she  ran  after  him  as  madly  as  a  girl  of  seventeen 
ever  chased  a  sweetheart;  she  violated  her  own  rules, 
one  after  another,  and  the  neighbours  were  shocked. 

Not  that  she  actually  did  anything  wrong;  the 
astounding  thing  was  that  she  fell  violently  in  love, 
and  was  as  sentimental  and  foolish  as  a  girl.  It  was 
pitiful,  tragical;  and  the  scamp  upon  whom  she  lav 
ished  her  affection  didn't  appreciate  it,  but  married 
another  woman.  Belle  Davison  is  so  thin  and  un 
happy  now  that  meeting  her  on  the  street  is  as  de 
pressing  as  a  funeral. 


—129— 


ANDREW     HACKBARTH 

Most  of  the  old-timers  came  to  this  county  in  1854, 
when  the  land  was  opened  to  settlement.  Among  the 
number  was  Andrew  Hackbarth,  a  likable  man,  except 
that  he  did  not  get  along  with  his  wife.  We  heard  he 
had  been  a  member  of  the  legislature  in  the  older 
country  he  came  from ;  and  we  knew  he  was  a  worker, 
though  the  trouble  with  his  wife  bothered  him  and 
rendered  him  quiet. 

I  never  knew  what  their  differences  were,  though 
I  can  attest  Andrew  was  a  very  decent  man  during 
the  many  years  I  saw  him  nearly  every  day.  But  his 
wife  told  the  most  terrible  tales  about  Andrew.  I 
have  been  hearing  hard  tales  about  men  all  my  life; 
Mrs.  Hackbarth's  assortment  on  her  husband  was  the 
worst  of  all;  there  was  no  viciousness  of  which  she  did 
not  accuse  him.  He  never  said  anything  in  reply, 
and  about  all  people  ever  knew  was  that,  so  far  as 
they  could  see,  he  was  a  good  man. 

Andrew's  wife  finally  left  him,  going  to  a  distant 
state.  But  she  would  not  give  him  a  divorce,  though 
she  often  came  back,  usually  appearing  first  at  the 
county  seat,  where  she  began  some  sort  of  suit  against 
him.  Then  she  would  appear  in  his  neighbourhood, 
and  tell  her  stories  on  Andrew.  What  pleased  her 
—130— 


ANDREW    HACKBARTH 


most  was  to  meet  him  at  church  or  other  public  place 
and  tongue-lash  him,  but  Andrew  never  said  a  word; 
he  took  it  all,  and  hoped  she  would  go  away.  Which 
she  finally  did,  greatly  to  the  relief  of  everybody;  but 
within  a  few  months  we  would  hear  again  that  she  was 
in  the  county  seat  consulting  her  lawyer. 

This  kept  up  until  both  were  old  and  worn  out. 
Then  she  died,  and  we  heard  they  had  a  daughter  with 
whom  the  mother  had  been  living.  Then  the  daughter 
commenced  annoying  Andrew  with  suits,  as  her 
mother  had  done,  but  this  was  finally  settled  by  the 
daughter's  coming  to  live  with  Andrew. 

The  daughter  had  never  married,  and  was  about 
fifty  years  old  when  she  appeared  to  care  for  the 
father  in  his  old  age.  Some  were  suspicious  from 
the  first;  they  said  she  looked  like  her  mother,  and 
acted  like  her. 

Andrew  lived  in  a  six-room  house  all  on  one  floor, 
and  the  first  night  the  daughter  was  there  she  noticed 
that  Andrew  slept  with  the  window  curtain  of  his  bed 
room  up.  The  daughter  said  she  thought  it  was  a 
peculiar  way  to  do;  that  she  always  put  down  the 
curtain  when  she  went  to  bed. 

Andrew  patiently  explained  that  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  that  way  of  doing;  that  he  was  an  old  man, 
and  somewhat  restless,  and  liked  to  look  out  at  the 
stars  while  lying  in  bed  at  night,  before  going  to  sleep. 

He  thought  that  would  satisfy  her,  but  when  he 
—131— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

awoke  next  morning  his   curtain  was   down  again. 

This  provoked  Andrew,  who  was  honestly  trying  to 
get  along  with  his  only  remaining  relative,  as  was  his 
duty;  so  he  said  to  his  daughter  that  his  curtain  being 
up  needn't  bother  her,  she  was  at  liberty  to  sleep  with 
her  curtain  down  if  she  liked,  and  should  be  satisfied. 
He  therefore  hoped  she  would  let  his  curtain  alone. 

But  she  didn't;  next  morning  Andrew's  curtain  was 
down;  she  had  slipped  in  after  her  father  was  asleep, 
and  lowered  it. 

The  controversy  went  on  a  month.  Every  morning 
Andrew's  curtain  was  down,  and  Andrew  pleaded  with 
his  daughter  to  let  him  have  his  way  in  just  one  thing. 
He  said  he  had  submitted  to  a  good  deal  from  his 
womenfolks,  and  begged  for  peace.  But  the  daugh 
ter  was  determined  that  the  curtain  in  her  father's 
bedroom  should  be  lowered  at  night,  and  at  last  he 
drove  her  out  of  the  house. 

She  went  to  the  county  seat  and  promptly  began 
another  lawsuit,  which  continued  so  long  and  was  so 
expensive  that  Andrew  was  ruined.  Both  have  been 
dead  several  years;  I  bought  their  quarter  at  the  ad 
ministrator's  sale,  and  added  it  to  my  land. 


-132— 


JOE     STEVENS 

We  haven't  a  daily  paper  in  our  town,  but  really 
don't  greatly  miss  one,  owing  to  Mr.  Stevens,  the  milk 
man.  In  summer  he  delivers  morning  and  evening, 
and  there  is  little  he  doesn't  know.  Indeed  we  some 
times  think  that,  like  the  editors,  he  invents  things  on 
dull  days,  to  interest  his  customers. 

And  what  wonderful  experiences  Joe  Stevens  has 
had !  He  must  have  forty  customers,  but  nothing  ever 
happens  to  any  of  them  he  can't  beat.  Ez  Hawkins 
caught  two  mice  in  a  little  dead-fall  trap  intended 
for  one,  and  thought  it  very  wonderful;  but  when  Mr. 
Stevens  came  round  with  the  milk  he  didn't  pay  much 
attention  to  the  incident;  he  said  he  had  caught  two 
mice  repeatedly.  So  Ez  started  in  to  find  something 
Mr.  Stevens  had  never  heard  of. 

Mr.  Stevens  moved  to  town  from  the  country,  to  re 
tire,  but  didn't  like  idleness  so  well  as  he  thought  he 
would,  and  began  selling  milk.  At  first  he  sold  to 
only  a  few,  and  packed  it  round,  but  after  a  while  he 
was  compelled  to  get  a  horse  and  wagon,  and  a  boy 
to  help  him. 

But  his  wife  liked  idleness.  Her  ambition  while 
on  the  farm  had  been  to  move  to  town  and  buy  a  sur 
rey;  and  when  she  attained  these  two  ambitions  she 
—133— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

wouldn't  go  back  to  work;  she  said  she  had  slaved 
enough. 

And  the  longer  she  was  in  retirement  the  stouter 
she  became;  people  noticed,  when  she  was  out  driving 
on  Sunday,  with  the  milk-wagon  horse  attached  to  the 
surrey,  that  she  completely  filled  the  back  seat.  Mr. 
Stevens  drove,-  but  was  so  small  that  many  people 
didn't  notice  him  and  thought  he  was  busy  with  the 
cows. 

Ez  knew  Mrs.  Stevens  wouldn't  help  with  the  cows, 
saying  she  had  done  her  share;  so  after  that  when 
Mr.  Stevens  came  with  the  milk  Ez  began  telling  about 
a  wonderful  woman  who  lived  over  on  Mule  Creek. 
She  made  nearly  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  Ez  said, 
with  her  chickens  and  cows,  and  turned  it  over  to  her 
husband;  in  fact,  was  glad  to  do  it,  as  she  wanted  to 
help. 

Ez  noticed  that  Mr.  Stevens  took  an  interest  in  the 
Mule  Creek  woman,  so  he  quit  talking  about  trifling 
things  like  catching  two  mice  in  one  trap,  and  told 
about  the  woman  who  worked  hard  but  always  looked 
well  in  spite  of  it,  and  was  cheerful  and  content.  Mr. 
Stevens  was  a  great  talker,  but  was  silent  when  Ez 
talked  about  the  wonderful  Mule  Creek  woman;  it 
was  almost  indelicate,  the  interest  Mr.  Stevens  took  in 
the  other  woman.  The  neighbours  knew  about  Ez's 
stories,  and  complained  that  he  kept  Mr.  Stevens  so 
long  hearing  them  that  they  were  compelled  to  wait 
for  milk,  and  made  breakfast  or  supper  late. 
—134— 


JOE    STEVENS 


The  men  in  the  neighbourhood  were  amused  over 
Ez  Hawkins'  joke  on  Mr.  Stevens;  they,  too,  had  heard 
him  brag  of  having  had  more  wonderful  experiences 
in  everything,  so  some  of  them  used  to  go  over  to  Ez's 
house  Sunday  morning  and  wait  round  until  Mr. 
Stevens  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door,  when  Ez  would 
go  out  and  tell  him  more  about  the  Mule  Creek  woman. 
In  fact,  three  of  the  men  in  the  neighbourhood  were  in 
Ez's  kitchen  listening  when  Mr.  Stevens  finally  con 
fessed  defeat. 

Ez  told  Mr.  Stevens  that  the  Mule  Creek  woman's 
husband  went  to  town  the  day  before  to  attend  a  lodge 
gathering,  and  that  his  wife  told  him  to  have  a  good 
time;  not  to  worry  in  the  least  about  affairs  at  the 
farm.  Then  she  took  the  team  and  her  two  boys,  Ez 
said,  and  put  up  four  tons  of  hay.  When  the  Mule 
Creek  woman's  husband  returned  home  at  night  his 
wife  had  all  the  chores  done  and  was  dressed  up  to 
welcome  her  husband.  She  expressed  the  hope  that 
he  had  enjoyed  himself  in  town,  and  had  an  appetiz 
ing  lunch  ready  for  him. 

This  story  greatly  impressed  Mr.  Stevens  and  as  he 
moved  away  from  the  kitchen  door  he  said  to  Ez, 
in  hearing  of  the  three  men  in  the  kitchen:  "Well, 
that  beats  my  time." 


—135— 


GLADYS     HARt 

Until  six  months  ago  there  lived  in  our  neighbour 
hood  a  beautiful  creature  we  all  called  The  Princess 
behind  her  back.  Though  apparently  the  daughter  of 
George  Hart  and  his  wife  Margaret,  The  Princess  was 
very  superior  to  her  surroundings.  The  Hart  boys 
worked,  and  were  of  considerable  cash  value  to  their 
father,  but  were  never  clothed  in  fine  raiment  as  was 
their  sister  Gladys,  who  was  also  sent  away  to  school 
one  term,  and  spent  her  time  when  at  home  mainly  in 
practising  music  lessons. 

Every  one  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  doing  some 
thing  for  Gladys  Hart;  I  confess  I  did,  and  was 
ashamed  of  my  ugliness  and  worldly  habits  when  in 
her  presence. 

We  never  knew  much  of  the  man  she  married,  ex 
cept  that  he  came  from  a  fine  family  and  was  an  un 
usually  capable  business  man,  considering  his  age; 
and  I  think  this  came  from  The  Princess.  But  we 
never  wondered  that  he  fell  in  love  with  Gladys  Hart; 
she  was  really  beautiful  and  witty  and  superior. 

Everybody  was  expected  to  give  a  social  function 

of  some  kind  for  The  Princess,  and  we  all  did  our 

duty  promptly;  we  were  as  humble  as  George  Hart 

himself  when  it  came  to  giving  her  a  proper  send-off; 

—136— 


GLADYS    HART 


the  whole  neighbourhood  was  disturbed  during  a  busy 
season. 

And  what  a  fuss  was  made  when  she  was  finally 
married!  George  Hart  couldn't  afford  the  wedding 
he  gave  her,  but  there  was  no  other  way  out;  such  a 
beautiful  creature  just  naturally  demanded  a  big  wed 
ding,  and  George  submitted.  It  cost  George  and  the 
boys  a  year's  work  at  least,  as  the  caterers  and  dress 
makers  came  from  the  city;  nothing  came  from  our 
local  trading  point  except  the  society  reporters  from 
the  papers,  who  gave  a  rich  flavour  to  everything  they 
wrote  of  the  affair. 

And  how  the  women  and  girls  worked  in  decorat 
ing  the  church!  Busy,  hardworking  men  were  ne 
glected,  and  frequently  prepared  their  own  meals. 

The  guests  marveled  a  little  at  the  bridegroom's 
kin ;  they  didn't  live  up  to  the  advertising,  but  the  wed 
ding  was  finally  over  and  The  Princess  departed  for 
her  new  home,  accompanied  by  the  usual  foolish 
ness  at  the  depot. 

But  the  manner  in  which  The  Princess  dropped  out 
of  sight  and  mind  after  her  marriage  was  the  strangest 
thing  I  have  ever  heard  of.  I  had  supposed  Mrs.  Hart 
at  least  enjoyed  the  preparation  for  the  wedding  of 
her  daughter,  but  a  perfectly  reliable  woman  informs 
me  she  heard  Mrs.  Hart  express  weariness  and  say, 
"Never  again!" 

Another  perfectly  reliable  witness  testifies  that  the 
—137— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

Hart  boys — John,  Silas  and  William — said  in  the 
presence  of  their  father  that  they  were  grateful  to  the 
bridegroom  for  taking  The  Princess  off  their  hands; 
and  they  were  not  reproved.  I  myself  heard  George 
Hart  say  the  day  after  the  wedding,  in  presence  of  his 
wife,  "What  a  relief!" 

For  weeks  before  the  wedding  we  heard  of  nothing 
but  The  Princess;  after  it  we  heard  almost  nothing  at 
all  of  her.  Her  parents  and  neighbours  washed  their 
hands  of  her,  as  the  Hindus  do. 

I  often  think  it  is  a  shame  we  do  not  all  miss  The 
Princess,  and  are  almost  glad  to  be  rid  of  her;  but  she 
is  not  entirely  blameless;  she  overloaded  us  when  we 
couldn't  help  ourselves. 


—138— 


MRS.     JOE     BUEY 

Mrs.  Joe  Buey  isn't  seen  in  the  stores  once  a  month, 
and  then  she  buys  only  calico  and  gingham  and  muslin 
which  she  makes  up  herself.  After  she  appears  on 
the  streets  the  people  feel  uncomfortable  for  days — 
she  looks  so  frail,  overworked  and  wretched.  People 
can't  understand  how  any  one  is  able  to  live  and  look 
as  bad  as  Mrs.  Joe  Buey  does.  She  has  worn  the 
same  hat  summer  and  winter  for  years  and  her  ap 
pearance  gives  one  the  queer  feeling  of  hearing  a 
strange  noise  and  thinking  maybe  it  is  a  ghost. 
People  know  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  ghost,  but  they 
used  to  think  there  was  no  such  woman  as  Mrs.  Joe 
Buey. 

It  is  generally  said  Joe  treats  her  better  than  their 
children  do.  Joe  is  a  teamster  and  works  as  steadily 
as  work  offers,  but  when  not  otherwise  engaged  he 
stays  round  home  and  helps  his  wife,  which  the  chil 
dren  never  do.  The  teacher  once  sent  a  Buey  boy 
home  from  school,  and  next  morning  the  boy's  mother 
appeared,  imploring  the  teacher  to  take  him  back. 
She  didn't  claim  her  son  had  been  mistreated;  she  just 
asked  that  he  be  given  another  chance,  and  was  such  a 
picture  of  woe  that  the  teacher  relented.  When  her 
baby  is  ill  she  is  so  poor  that  she  is  compelled  to  take 
—139— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

it  to  the  doctor's  office,  and  Dan  Sayer  says  the  most 
pitiful  sight  he  ever  saw  is  Mrs.  Joe  Buey  carrying 
her  sick  baby  to  the  cheapest  doctor  in  town,  as  she 
knows  she  can't  get  credit  anywhere  else. 


—140— 


JOHN     DAVIS 


A  travelling  man  yesterday  gave  John  Davis,  the 
grocer,  a  twenty-cent  cigar.  John  Davis  has  been 
selling  cigars  at  his  grocery  store  and  smoking  twenty 
years — and  a  good  cigar  made  him  sick. 


—141— 


TAYLOR     WARD 


It  is  generally  said  certain  mean  men  in  this  town 
should  be  chased  out  for  the  general  good ;  and  Taylor 
Ward  says  that  if  the  meanest  men  should  be  voted  on 
all  of  us  would  get  votes. 


—142— 


MARY     RANSOM 

Now  that  I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  fellow,  I  don't 
mind  telling  about  my  first  love  affair.  When  a  man 
is  young  he  denies  he  ever  had  any  love  affairs.  He 
says  he  is  still  waiting  for  his  ideal.  I  confess  I 
found  mine  years  ago.  She  was  a  school-teacher 
named  Mary  Ransom  and  the  finest  woman  I  had  ever 
seen.  I  not  only  worshipped  her  in  secret  but  openly. 
But  a  cloud  came  over  our  happiness — a  man  named 
Mendenhall.  The  teacher  used  to  give  me  notes  to 
take  to  Mendenhall,  and  I  was  torn  between  love  and 
duty;  I  wanted  the  money  she  gave  me  to  carry  the 
notes,  and  I  hated  to  do  it.  I  redoubled  my  efforts  to 
be  nice  to  her,  but  Mendenhall  won.  She  quit  teach 
ing  school  and  went  away  to  a  distant  town  to  live.  I 
have  never  seen  her  since. 

They  say  a  man  soon  forgets  a  love  affair,  but  it 
isn't  true.  Last  week  a  tall  young  man  called  on  me 
and  said  his  name  was  Fred  Mendenhall;  that  his 
mother  was  Mary  Ransom,  my  former  school-teacher, 
and  that  she  had  asked  him  to  call  on  me.  I  thought 
it  was  rather  indelicate,  sending  her  son  in  to  see  me. 


—143— 


CHARLEY     GROVER 

In  my  neighbourhood  there  lives  a  family  named 
Grover — the  mother  and  father  and  five  little  children. 
Whether  I  am  in  my  room  at  work  or  sitting  on  the 
porch,  the  Grover  children  are  always  in  evidence, 
since  they  are  very  active  and  all  through  the  summer 
play  outdoors  barefoot,  which  they  regard  as  a  great 
privilege,  except  that  their  mother  pesters  them  about 
washing  their  feet  at  night. 

Their  mother  does  not  believe  in  letting  her  chil 
dren  bother  the  neighbours,  so  they  are  always  at 
home,  and  other  children  play  with  them.  They  are 
the  most  natural,  human  youngsters  I  ever  knew  and, 
as  they  are  healthy,  they  are  noisy  from  the  time  they 
get  up  in  the  morning  until  they  go  to  bed  at  night. 
Because  of  my  open  windows  I  know  everything  they 
do  or  say.  When  I  waken  in  the  morning  the  roar  in 
the  Grover  yard  is  going  full  tilt,  but  I  only  smile  at 
it,  because  I  am  fond  of  the  Grover  children.  If  I 
see  company  arrive  at  the  Grover  home  I  soon  hear 
one  of  the  children  say  to  the  mother:  "Where  are 
we  going  to  sleep  tonight?"  And  next  day  I  hear  one 
of  the  Grover  children  put  this  question:  "When  are 
-  they  going  home?" 

The  Grover  child  that  interests  me  most  is  Charley, 
—144— 


CHARLEY    GROVER 


seven  years  old.  One  morning  I  noticed  that  Charley 
was  in  disgrace.  His  mother  had  dressed  him  in 
girl's  clothes  to  punish  him.  This  kept  him  in  the 
house  for  a  while,  but  soon  he  didn't  mind  the  girl's 
dress  and  played  out  in  the  yard,  where  he  was  for 
bidden  to  go.  Then  his  mother  took  his  clothes  off 
and  thought  that  would  keep  him  in  the  house,  but  in 
a  little  while  he  was  out  playing  with  the  other  chil 
dren,  naked. 

By  this  time  I  was  much  interested  in  Charley's 
crime  and  made  bold  to  go  to  the  fence  and  ask  Mrs. 
Grover  what  Charley  had  done. 

Charley  had  told  a  story.  I  recommended  to  Mrs. 
Grover  that  she  wash  Charley's  mouth  with  soapsuds 
and  let  it  go  at  that,  but  she  thought  it  best  to  keep 
Charley  in  the  house  until  his  father  came  home,  when 
a  family  council  would  be  held  and  Charley's  fate 
decided. 

Mrs.  Grover  told  me  of  Charley's  disgrace.  With 
some  other  boys  he  had  gone  to  a  pond  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  and  fallen  in.  When  he  returned  home  his 
mother  asked  him  how  his  clothes  became  wet.  And 
then  Charley  said  he  was  up  at  his  Aunt  Hannah's  and 
in  getting  a  drink  out  of  the  well  bucket  had  acci 
dentally  spilled  some  on  his  clothes. 

Charley  had  been  warned  not  to  go  to  the  pond,  and 

I  feared  it  would  go  hard  with  him  when  his  father 

came  home.     I  have  known  Charley's  father  all  his 

life,  and  though  a  good,  steady  man  now  he  was 

—145— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

tougher  as  a  boy  than  Charley  is.  You  know  how 
parents  take  on  about  a  child  who  has  told  a  story. 
We  all  tell  them.  But  how  we  are  shocked  if  children 
are  caught  at  it.  We  say  a  great  big  black  man  or  a 
policeman  will  get  them. 

I  asked  Mrs.  Grover  to  put  Charley  in  my  charge 
for  half  an  hour  and,  as  she  knows  I  like  the  children, 
she  let  me  have  him,  first  putting  his  sister  Maggie's 
dress  on  him.  Then  I  led  him  over  to  my  porch  and 
lectured  him. 

"Charley,"  I  said,  "I  don't  think  it  very  wicked  to 
tell  a  story,  since  I've  told  more  of  them  probably  than 
any  other  man  in  the  world,  unless  it  is  your  father, 
who  is  coming  home  presently  to  whip  you.  But 
there  is  a  reason  why  you  shouldn't  tell  stories  and 
it  is  a  very  important  one.  Who  told  on  you?" 

"Grandma  Grover,"  the  boy  replied. 

"There  you  are,"  I  said;  "a  woman  told  on  you. 
And  I  venture  to  say  that  within  an  hour  after  you 
told  this  story  you  were  caught." 

Charley  corrected  my  figures — he  was  caught  in 
twenty  minutes. 

"That's  the  reason  why  you  shouldn't  tell  stories — 
you  are  always  caught  and  you  are  always  caught 
promptly.  The  average  with  me  has  possibly  been 
above  twenty  minutes,  but  I  have  always  been  caught. 
And  it  is  usually  the  women  who  tell  on  me.  Women 
are  more  truthful  than  men  and  boys  and  they  seem 
—146— 


CHARLEY    GROVER 


to  take  special  delight  in  catching  them  in  stories.  I 
know  you  didn't  like  to  worry  your  mother  by  ac 
knowledging  you  had  gone  to  the  pond.  Women 
don't  know  knee-deep  from  over  your  head. 

"You  couldn't  have  been  drowned  in  that  pond  if 
the  other  boys  had  thrown  you  in  and  sat  on  you. 
You  knew  that,  but  your  mother  didn't,  so  you  should 
have  told  her  the  truth.  You  should  always  behave 
as  well  as  possible,  since  that  is  really  the  easiest  way, 
but  above  everything  else  don't  tell  stories.  The  rea 
son  I  have  already  explained — you  are  always  caught. 
Millions  of  boys  are  telling  millions  of  whoppers 
every  day,  but  every  wretch  is  caught;  if  not  by  his 
grandmother  then  by  his  sisters;  if  not  by  his  sisters, 
then  by  some  woman  in  the  neighbourhood.  Young 
as  you  are,  you  must  have  noticed  the  pleasure  your 
mother,  grandmother,  sisters  and  the  neighbour  women 
take  in  catching  you.  But  you  will  never  know  how 
a  woman  can  actually  enjoy  herself  until  you  marry 
and  your  wife  begins  catching  you.  Promise  me  you 
will  never  tell  another  and  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  get 
you  off.  I  see  your  father  coming  home  to  dinner." 

The  boy  promised,  and  we  went  over  to  his  father, 
whose  name  is  George  Washington  Grover,  but  people 
called  him  Wash. 

"Wash,"  I  said,  "our  friend  Charley  is  in  trouble. 
The  women  have  caught  him  in  a  story  and  they  are 
waiting  for  you  to  whip  him.  Of  course  I  know  you 
—147— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

never  told  one,  and  I  confess  I  am  myself  greatly 
shocked  at  Charley's  conduct.  But  he  has  promised 
me  he  will  never  tell  another,  and  if  you  will  let  him 
off  this  time  I'll  go  on  his  bond." 

"Well,"  Wash  said,  "I'll  go  in  and  talk  to  mamma 
about  it." 

And  he  led  the  boy  away.  I  knew  mamma  was  all 
right,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Charley  appeared  in  his 
own  clothes. 

The  advice  I  gave  Charley  I  give  you.  Don't  tell 
stories,  because  the  women  will  always  catch  you. 


—148— 


THOMAS     LANE     MONTGOMERY 

Bill  Hart  is  a  rich  man,  largely  for  the  reason  that 
many  years  ago  he  got  the  notion  in  his  head  that  he 
wanted  more  land. 

That  was  his  passion — land.  He  thought  of  it  dur 
ing  the  day,  dreamed  of  it  at  night,  and  went  in  debt, 
paying  out  as  fast  as  he  could;  and  now  he  is  rich. 
Bill's  neighbour,  Thomas  Lane  Montgomery,  also  had 
an  ambition  many  years  ago.  It  was  to  print  a  book 
of  poetry.  He  finally  succeeded,  but  his  book  was 
not  profitable.  A  man  who  bought  land  in  the  early 
days  could  not  avoid  becoming  rich,  but  there  is  no 
possibility  of  a  man  making  money  by  publishing  a 
book  of  poetry. 


—149— 


OLD     GEORGE     BENNETT 

Old  George  Bennett,  who  had  been  a  local  charac 
ter  for  years,  was  found  dead  this  morning  in  a 
wretched  old  house  where  he  has  lived  alone  for  a  long 
time. 

He  had  long  been  separated  from  his  wife  and  she 
had  made  him  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  owing  to  some 
flaw  in  their  settlement.  She  lived  in  Ohio  with  their 
only  daughter,  and  every  little  while  appeared  here 
and  started  a  new  suit  of  some  kind  against  him. 
And  in  addition  she  made  the  most  terrible  charges 
against  him,  which  the  neighbours  repeated,  though 
they  themselves  knew  nothing  against  the  man.  He 
has  never  been  a  burden  to  any  one.  Somehow  he  has 
managed  to  get  along.  I  frequently  met  him  hob 
bling  to  and  from  the  shop  where  he  worked  at  his 
trade.  I  inquired  among  his  associates  and  they  all 
spoke  well  of  him.  They  gave  him  work  when  he 
was  able  to  do  it  and  said  he  was  a  good  workman. 
For  two  or  three  years  he  had  been  aging  rapidly  and 
occasionally  been  ill.  His  wife  died  a  year  ago,  and 
old  George  had  had  peace  since  then,  but  with  it  he 
had  illness,  old  age  and  poverty. 

But  he  did  not  want  for  anything  during  his  last 
illness.  Six  months  ago  his  daughter,  who  lives  in 
—150— 


OLD    GEORGE    BENNETT 


Ohio,  came  to  see  him.  When  she  walked  into  his 
wretched  home  I  heard  he  said:  "Well,  Mary,  here's 
where  your  father  lives." 

Just  that — no  complaint  of  neglect.  And  his 
daughter  hurst  out  crying.  She  had  been  hearing 
from  her  mother  that  he  was  rich  and  would  do  noth 
ing  for  them  because  of  meanness. 

His  daughter  was  not  well  off  herself,  but  she  did 
a  great  deal  to  make  her  father  more  comfortable. 
And  after  she  went  away  a  number  of  us  sent  him  all 
sorts  of  things  and  said  they  came  from  his  daughter 
Mary.  He  had  become  almost  blind  lately  and  I  pre 
tended  to  read  letters  to  him  from  his  daughter  enclos 
ing  money  in  my  care  and  making  suggestions  for  his 
comfort.  The  neighbour  men  did  it,  but  old  George 
will  never  know.  And  the  kindness  of  his  daughter 
Mary  always  pleased  him.  The  women  said  they 
supposed  the  old  wretch  should  be  taken  care  of  in 
spite  of  his  meanness,  but  the  men  contributed  without 
comment  of  any  kind,  except  that  they  had  known  him 
many  years  and  knew  no  harm  in  him. 

I  shall  always  think  less  of  gossip  because  of  my 
acquaintance  with  old  George  Bennett. 


-151— 


GLEN     BARKER 

Something  must  be  done  about  the  band.  For  four 
years  it  has  been  practising  twice  a  week  at  the  school- 
house,  and  at  least  that  often  Glen  Barker  has  taken 
up  a  collection  to  pay  for  new  horns,  new  uniforms, 
new  drums  and  so  on. 

Glen  Barker  doesn't  play  in  the  band.  He  is  the 
manager  and  devotes  a  good  deal  of  time  to  the  posi 
tion.  He  never  meets  a  citizen  that  he  doesn't  talk 
band  finances  and  intimate  very  broadly  that  the 
town  has  no  pride  and  no  enterprise.  He  says  the 
band  plays  in  other  neighbourhoods  and  advertises  us. 
His  favourite  expression  is  that  the  band  has  put  this 
town  on  the  map. 

"What?"  the  manager  screams  to  all  of  us  with 
pathos  in  his  voice.  "Let  the  band  go  to  pieces?" 

Nearly  every  citizen  is  a  craven  coward,  he  has 
been  abused  so  much  for  not  doing  more  for  the  band ; 
though  all  of  us  have  done  as  much  as  we  could  afford 
to  keep  the  organization  together. 

Last  week  the  band  played  for  the  grocers'  picnic 
and  those  present  say  its  playing  reminded  them  of  a 
charivari.  Instead  of  advertising  us  it  causes  us  to 
be  made  fun  of.  We  have  long  feared  that  the  band 
didn't  play  very  well,  but  it  seems  it  can't  play  at  all. 
—152— 


GLEN     BARKER 


Glen  Barker,  the  manager,  said  to  one  critic :  "Why, 
our  band  has  twenty -five  men!  Mighty  few  country 
bands  have  that  many." 

To  which  the  critic  replied:  "The  larger  a  band 
like  yours  the  worse  it  is.  It  wouldn't  be  near  so  bad 
if  you  had  only  seven  or  eight  members." 

And  how  Glen  Barker,  the  manager,  has  pleaded 
with  us  to  make  one  more  effort  to  keep  the  band  up 
to  its  full  membership  of  twenty-five! 

So  we  must  do  something  about  the  band ;  and  I  am 
of  the  opinion  that  the  calamity  long  dreaded  by 
Glen  Barker,  the  manager,  is  imminent. 


—153— 


HARVEY     KING 

Harvey  King  is  hopelessly  ruined  at  the  age  of 
thirty-six,  though  he  comes  of  an  excellent  family  and 
had  every  opportunity  to  become  a  useful  and  success 
ful  man.  He  attended  school  twelve  years,  but  be 
longed  to  mandolin  clubs  and  the  school  fraternities 
and  wasted  so  much  time  that  he  would  have  been 
better  off  had  he  been  learning  a  trade. 

Soon  after  he  became  of  age  he  married  a  good 
girl  and  was  placed  in  charge  of  a  profitable  business 
through  the  influence  of  relatives,  but  he  soon  ruined 
it  by  neglect.  He  was  given  another  chance,  but  this 
time  he  not  only  ruined  the  business  by  neglect  but 
overdrew  his  account  and  was  only  saved  from  dis 
grace  by  his  relations  raising  a  considerable  amount 
of  money. 

This  has  been  his  history  ever  since.  He  has  been 
given  opportunity  after  opportunity  and  neglected 
them  all. 

Had  this  young  man  been  brought  up  strictly  as  a 
boy  he  would  have  become  a  useful  man,  as  his 
father  was.  But  he  was  reared  in  the  shiftless  man 
ner  too  common  in  this  town  and  his  ruin  is  the  result. 

He  had  a  very  much  better  chance  than  the  average 
and  has  made  a  failure  because  he  was  not  properly 
—154— 


HARVEY    KING 


controlled  as  a  child.  He  did  nothing  until  he  was 
almost  of  age,  and  depended  on  his  father.  Finally 
his  father  died,  and  the  modest  fortune  he  left  was 
soon  dissipated  under  the  management  of  an  indul 
gent  mother. 

Harvey  is  bitter,  but  he  has  not  been  the  victim  of 
the  slightest  injustice.  He  has  not  lacked  the  widest 
liberty  and  opportunity.  Indeed  he  was  born  with 
a  golden  spoon  in  his  mouth  in  a  golden  age.  He  was 
kindly  treated — too  kindly  treated.  He  had  the  ad 
vantage  of  good  schools  and  a  good  home.  He  is  a 
wreck  today  because  he  was  not  properly  brought  up 
as  a  child. 


—155— 


VIC     WALKER 

It  was  lately  decided  that  Vic  Walker  would  be 
better  off  in  the  insane  asylum.  I  happened  to  be  in 
the  court  room  when  he  was  brought  in  and  first 
realized  that  people  thought  him  crazy.  I  never  saw 
quite  so  much  astonishment  as  he  displayed  when  told 
that  the  charge  against  him  was  insanity. 

"What?"  he  indignantly  said.  "Me  crazy? 
Why,  I  know  more  than  the  rest  of  you!" 

I  suppose  we  all  have  that  notion — more  or  less. 


—156— 


GEORGE     COLEMAN 

A  committee  of  farmers  from  the  Deer  Creek  neigh 
bourhood  lately  investigated  the  city  scales.  The 
farmers  have  been  noticing  for  some  time  that  the 
city  scales  gave  a  little  better  result  when  they  had  a 
load  of  hogs  to  sell  than  the  scales  used  by  the  buyer, 
so  they  had  an  investigation  in  which  they  invited 
George  Coleman,  the  mayor,  to  assist. 

But  it  turned  out  all  right.  The  members  of  the 
committee  were  fair  and  reported  unanimously  that 
the  difference  was  probably  due  to  optimism. 

George  Coleman  says  the  man  who  operates  the  city 
scales  has  no  interest  in  a  load  of  hogs  except  that 
he  hopes  the  owner  will  get  as  much  as  possible  for 
it.  So  he  is  liberal  in  giving  his  figures;  he  gives 
the  farmer  a  shade  the  better  of  it,  so  far  as  he  can. 

Same  way  when  the  farmer  returns  with  his  empty 
wagon.  The  city  scales  man  makes  the  wagon  weigh 
as  little  as  possible,  since  it  costs  him  nothing  to  be  a 
good  fellow. 

But  it  is  different,  George  Coleman  says,  with  the 
man  who  buys  the  hogs.  He  wants  the  load  to  weigh 
as  little  as  possible  and  the  empty  wagon  to  weigh  as 
much  as  possible,  and  by  the  time  optimism  has 
worked  four  times  on  one  load  of  hogs  there  is  a  dif 
ference  in  weight  that  is  remarked  by  the  seller  when 
he  compares  the  two  tickets. 

—157— 


JOE     WARD 

I  was  lately  making  a  little  automobile  journey  and 
met  Joe  Ward,  a  high-priced  man.  We  were  passing 
through  the  town  of  Centerville  and  stopped  a  mo 
ment  to  inquire  the  road  to  Fairview. 

It  happened  that  the  man  we  addressed  was  Joe 
Ward  himself,  who  said  he  was  just  about  to  leave  for 
Fairview  and  would  show  us  the  way  if  we  would 
give  him  a  ride. 

So  he  sat  beside  the  driver  and  turned  round  and 
told  us  about  the  farms  we  passed.  He  knew  every 
farmer  on  the  way;  how  his  crops  were  turning  out 
and  many  other  interesting  facts,  for  this  man  was  a 
clerk  in  the  New  York  Store  in  Centerville  and  had 
been  so  employed  nine  years. 

When  we  came  to  a  crossroad  he  would  say 
"Straight  ahead"  or  "Turn  to  the  right"  to  the  driver 
and  then  tell  us  something  of  interest  about  his  work 
in  the  New  York  Store.  It  seemed  he  was  a  very 
popular  clerk;  so  popular,  indeed,  that  the  proprietor 
of  the  Boston  Store,  the  principal  opposition,  had 
long  wanted  him. 

"But  I  said  to  him  frankly,"  Joe  Ward  ex 
plained,  "if  you  get  me  you'll  have  to  pay  a  man's 
wages.  I'm  no  cheap  skate.  I  was  born  over  on 
—158— 


JOE    WARD 


Cow  Creek  and  no  citizen  of  that  neighbourhood  would 
think  of  going  to  Centerville  without  trading  with 


me." 


"Here,"  I  thought,  "is  a  very  high-priced  man." 

I  began  wondering  how  much  would  induce  him  to 
leave  the  New  York  Store.  And  he  proceeded  to  tell 
us — he  couldn't  keep  a  secret. 

"Besides  the  pull  I  have  on  Cow  Creek,  my  grand 
father  is  the  leading  farmer  out  the  Fairview  way  and 
everybody  knows  I  control  the  best  trade  round  Fair- 
view.  So  I  says  to  Persinger,  of  the  Boston  Store: 
'If  you  get  me  you'll  get  the  best,  but  you'll  have  to 
pay  me.  I'm  human  like  everybody  else;  if  you 
pay  me  I'll  work  for  you  and  do  you  all  the  good  I 
can,  but  we  might  as  well  understand  each  other  first 
as  last — if  you  get  me  you'll  have  to  pay  me.  I'm 
no  amateur.  If  you  get  me  you'll  have  to  pay  me 
twelve  dollars  a  week.' ' 

But  it  developed  before  we  reached  the  next  town 
that  Persinger,  of  the  opposition  store,  wouldn't  stand 
an  innovation  like  that,  so  Joe  Ward  got  out  at  Fair- 
view  and  said  he  was  going  back  next  morning  to  re 
sume  his  work  at  the  New  York  Store. 


—159— 


EMANUEL     STRONG 

Emanuel  Strong  is  sick  and  probably  won't  get  well. 
The  thing  that  worries  him  most  is  his  poverty.  He 
has  always  made  enough,  but  lived  up  everything  as 
he  went  along  and  at  his  death  his  family  will  have 
nothing.  He  has  five  children  to  school  and  dress, 
and  Emanuel  and  his  wife  have  been  so  much  devoted 
to  them  that  they  have  not  had  much  themselves. 
Three  years  ago  there  was  an  excellent  opportunity 
for  Emanuel  to  buy  a  business  of  his  own,  but  he  had 
no  ready  money  and  a  banker  picked  up  the  bargain. 

When  I  called  on  Emanuel  lately  to  see  how  he  was 
getting  along  his  wife  surprised  me  by  saying  she  had 
ruined  her  husband  by  living  too  well  and  too  care 
lessly.  Emanuel  always  wanted  to  save,  she  said,  but 
she  paid  too  much  heed  to  the  demands  of  the  children 
and  everything  they  earned  slipped  away.  I  never 
before  heard  a  wife  make  a  similar  statement. 


<— 160— 


ED     MARSH 

Ed  Marsh  married  Maggie  Woolson  three  weeks 
ago,  and  they  went  to  live  with  Ed's  mother,  who  is  a 
widow  and  lives  alone.  This  week  Ed  and  his  wife 
went  to  a  home  of  their  own.  Yesterday  I  met  Mrs. 
Marsh,  and  remarked  that  Ed  and  his  wife  had  left 
her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "they  thought  they  would  be  better 
satisfied  in  a  home  of  their  own."  Then  she  thought 
awhile  and  added:  "And  me,  too." 


—161— 


MRS.     MARK     THOMPSON 

What  eventless  lives  most  women  lead!  Mrs. 
Mark  Thompson  confesses  that  this  was  the  only  un 
usual  thing  that  every  happened  in  her  life: 

When  a  girl  of  sixteen  she  lived  in  a  town  in  Iowa, 
and  has  never  yet  become  entirely  reconciled  to  a 
farm.  In  going  to  take  her  music  lesson  she  was 
compelled  to  pass  a  boarding  house  where  a  number 
of  students  lived,  and,  as  she  passed,  the  students 
used  to  tap  on  the  window.  But  she  never  once 
looked  up. 

Mark  Thompson  cannot  understand  yet  why  his 
wife  did  not  travel  another  street  when  on  her  way  to 
take  her  music  lesson.  Possibly  the  good  woman  en 
joyed  her  little  adventure,  and  the  consciousness  that 
nothing  could  make  her  look  up  when  the  bold  young 
men  tapped  on  the  window. 


—162— 


W.     T.     H  A  W  L  E  Y 

Some  men  complain  about  the  queerest  things. 
W.  T.  Hawley,  of  this  neighbourhood,  does  not  like  to 
be  called  Will;  he  says  it  sounds  effeminate.  Nor 
does  he  like  to  be  called  Bill.  He  says  that  sounds 
too  rough. 


—163— 


LA  WYE  R     BAILEY 

Some  old  maids  do  not  seem  to  mind  it,  while  oth 
ers  never  get  over  being  touchy.  A  single  woman  was 
lately  grossly  offended  by  Lawyer  Bailey.  She  sold 
a  piece  of  woodland  to  John  Hart,  and  Lawyer  Bailey 
drew  up  the  papers  in  which  he  recited  that  the  seller 
was  single,  as  required  by  law.  When  she  saw  this 
she  was  very  angry.  "Everybody  knows  that,"  she 
said;  "why  bring  up  that  old  joke  in  a  deed?" 


—164— 


GEORGE     L AWRE  N  CE 

Husbands  have  different  ways  of  asserting  them 
selves.  Some  storm  round  and  talk  rough,  usually 
about  dry-goods  bills,  for  there  never  was  a  husband 
who  could  understand  why  his  wife  needs  so  much 
voile.  Probably  most  husbands  jaw  at  their  wives  in 
private,  but  a  few  discuss  their  grievances  at  table  in 
presence  of  the  children.  When  a  wife  says  to  this 
sort  of  husband:  "S-sh!  It  is  no  subject  to  discuss 
before  the  children,"  he  will  reply:  "I  don't  care  if 
they  do  hear." 

But  George  Lawrence  regulates  his  wife  very 
quietly.  When  anything  goes  wrong  at  his  house  he 
never  says  a  word,  but  his  right  eyebrow  goes  up  like 
a  tent.  After  his  eyebrow  has  been  up  a  day  or  two, 
he  takes  it  down  again,  matters  having  been  regulated 
to  his  satisfaction. 


—165— 


MRS.     JOHN     HART 

Mrs.  John  Hart's  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Mary  Cain,  of 
Indiana,  came  to  visit  her,  and  Mrs.  Hart  and  Mrs. 
Cain  went  down  town  one  pleasant  afternoon  to  look 
at  the  stores.  On  the  street,  Mrs.  Hart  met  a  town 
woman  she  knows  and  talked  to  her  quite  a  while. 
Mrs.  Hart  loves  to  talk,  and  the  other  woman  is  also 
noted  for  a  perfect  stream  of  conversation.  Finally 
Mrs.  Hart  remembered  her  sister-in-law  and  looked 
round,  with  a  view  of  introducing  her,  but  she  had 
gone!  Mrs.  Cain,  it  seems,  became  angry  because 
Mrs.  Hart  did  not  introduce  her  to  the  town  woman 
and,  going  to  the  station,  took  the  first  train  home. 
Mrs.  Hart  looked  all  over  town  for  her  sister-in-law 
and  was  much  distressed,  but  her  husband  doesn't 
mind  it.  He  says  his  sister  always  was  the  touchiest 
thing  that  ever  lived,  and  is  rather  enjoying  his  wife's 
efforts  to  make  up. 


—166— 


GEORGE     HART 

George  Hart  was  loafing  in  his  kitchen  during  a 
recent  rainy  day,  when  his  daughter  Mary  said: 
"Mother's  bread  is  ready  to  go  in  the  oven."  "Well," 
Mr.  Hart  asked  her,  "why  don't  you  put  it  in?"  And 
then  the  daughter  laughed  at  him.  "No  woman  ever 
permitted  another  woman  to  decide  when  her  bread 
was  ready  to  go  in  the  oven."  This  amused  George 
and  he  called  upstairs  to  his  wife:  "Mary  says  your 
bread  is  ready  to  go  in  the  oven.  Shall  she  put  it 
in?"  "In  just  a  minute,"  his  wife  replied.  This 
amused  Mr.  Hart  more  than  ever,  and  he  watched 
developments.  In  five  minutes  his  wife  came  down 
stairs,  looked  at  the  bread  critically  and  didn't  put  it 
in  the  oven  for  half  an  hour.  "It's  lucky,"  he  said 
to  his  daughter  afterward,  "that  we  waited." 


—167— 


OLD    MR.    NEAL 


People  probably  live  as  long  as  they  ever  did.  I 
believe  old  Mr.  Neal  is  as  old  as  Methuselah — if  he 
would  admit  it. 


—168— 


BILL     ALVORD 

Every  two  or  three  years  Bill  Alvord  returns  from 
the  city  to  permit  us  to  shake  his  hand  and  be  proud 
of  him  because  he  has  a  job  paying  eighty-five  dollars 
a  month.  But  we're  not  so  glad  to  see  Bill  as  he 
thinks.  After  people  haven't  seen  a  man  for  three 
or  four  years  they  don't  care  if  they  never  see  him 
again. 


—169— 


MARTHA     WENDELL 

Being  an  only  child,  Martha  Wendell  was  notor 
iously  spoiled  by  her  parents.  She  lately  married 
Tom  Mason,  and  as  Tom  comes  of  an  old-fashioned 
family  where  the  children  were  compelled  to  mind  he 
refused  to  have  a  spoiled  wife,  so  he  insisted  on  cer 
tain  things  and  his  wife  carried  them  out.  But  she 
did  nothing  a  wife  should  not  have  done.  Indeed  she 
became  an  object  lesson  to  shiftless  young  married 
women,  since  she  was  useful,  sensible  and  a  good 
wife  and  home  maker. 

But  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  the  fuss  the  neigh 
bour  women  made!  They  said  Tom  Mason  was  a 
slave  driver,  though  he  asked  nothing  of  his  wife  she 
should  not  have  done,  and  she  confessed  to  me  only 
lately  that  she  loves  her  husband  and  is  happy.  The 
bride's  own  mother  says  her  daughter  was  spoiled  and 
that  her  husband  has  made  a  woman  of  her.  But 
the  neighbours  are  not  satisfied. 


—170— 


CHRIS     HALLECK 

The  women  won't  believe  it,  but  I  once  knew  a  wid 
ower  named  Chris  Halleck  who  didn't  like  to  marry 
the  second  time.  He  did  it,  but  the  day  of  the  wed 
ding  he  looked  as  though  he  had  been  called  upon  to 
attend  his  own  funeral.  He  loved  his  first  wife,  but 
something  caused  him  to  marry  again.  Maybe  it  was 
the  fact  that  he  had  two  little  girls  he  could  not  prop 
erly  care  for.  He  tried  housekeepers,  but  couldn't 
get  on  with  them  and  finally  began  going  with  another 
woman.  He  was  married  one  evening  without  his 
little  daughters  knowing  it.  Then  he  returned  home 
and  spent  the  night  with  them.  For  hours  he  tried  to 
tell  them,  and  was  afraid.  But  along  toward  morn 
ing  he  screwed  up  his  courage  and  told  them,  and  they 
clung  to  him  and  sobbed  and  the  father  sobbed  with 
them. 

I  don't  know  that  a  man  ever  died  of  a  broken 
heart — possibly  no  woman  ever  did  either — but  Chris 
Halleck  died  of  something  very  much  like  it.  His 
marriage  proved  to  be  a  mistake.  His  second  wife 
wasn't  kind  to  his  little  girls  and  Chris  couldn't  stand 
that. 


—171— 


JOE     ALLEN 

I  celebrated  my  nineteenth  birthday  (said  Joe  Al 
len)  by  enlisting  in  the  First  Vermont  cavalry.  We 
were  in  the  Shenandoah  valley,  under  Shields,  in  the 
spring  of  1862,  but  later  were  merged  into  Pope's 
army,  and  suffered  defeat  with  him  at  the  second 
battle  of  Bull  Run. 

After  varying  experiences  as  a  soldier,  which  in 
cluded  Fredericksburg,  one  day  we  started  to  join 
Meade's  army  at  Gettysburg.  My  impression  is  that 
we  marched  thirty  miles  beyond  Gettysburg,  and  then 
marched  back  again,  following  Hampton's  cavalry. 
There  was  a  general  impression  among  the  men  that 
a  big  fight  was  to  take  place  soon,  but  we  did  not 
know  where. 

Our  corps  approached  Gettysburg  on  three  differ 
ent  roads.  I  was  in  the  middle  column,  and  the  first 
intimation  I  had  of  fighting  was  encountering  a  field 
hospital,  where  there  were  two  or  three  hundred 
wounded.  We  arrived  on  the  battlefield  in  the  even 
ing  of  the  second  day's  fighting,  and  it  happened  that 
I  never  saw  the  town  of  Gettysburg  at  all. 

We  were  at  once  moved  around  to  the  right  wing  of 
Meade's  army,  and,  when  we  arrived  there,  struck 
Lee's  left  wing.     There  was  a  fight  lasting  until  11 
—172— 


JOE    ALLEN 


o'clock  at  night,  when  the  Confederates  retired. 
Then  we  were  moved  to  the  extreme  left  of  our  army, 
a  distance  of  twelve  miles,  arriving  about  day-break, 
just  as  the  third  day's  fighting  was  beginning.  We 
were  immediately  ordered  to  charge,  and  carry  a  line 
of  hills,  which  we  did,  and  took  up  a  position  in  ad 
vance  of  our  main  line.  We  remained  there  skirm 
ishing  until  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  word 
was  passed  that  there  was  to  be  a  charge. 

Little  Round  Top  was  almost  behind  us,  and  we 
charged  away  from  it.  There  was  a  Texas  regiment 
in  front  of  us,  lying  down  behind  a  stone  fence,  and 
we  charged  towards  it,  accompanied  by  three  or  four 
regiments  of  infantry.  The  firing  was  terrific,  and 
the  infantry  wavered,  causing  a  delay  of  the  cavalry. 
We  started  at  almost  the  same  time  that  Pickett 
charged,  and  probably  our  charge  was  to  draw  off  as 
many  of  the  enemy  as  possible  from  the  attack  on 
Little  Round  Top. 

During  the  delay  I  have  spoken  of,  and  while  the 
First  Vermont  cavalry  was  left  almost  alone  in  an  ex 
posed  position,  Kilpatrick,  the  division  commander, 
rode  up,  and  had  some  sharp  words  with  Farnsworth, 
the  brigade  commander,  who  was  leading  us.  I  was 
close  to  them,  and  heard  what  was  said;  Farnsworth 
protested  against  the  hopelessness  of  the  charge,  say 
ing  the  First  Vermont  had  been  cut  to  pieces  already, 
and  that  the  men  should  not  be  sacrificed.  Farns- 
—173— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

worth  said  he  would  lead  the  charge,  but  that  Kil- 
patrick  must  take  the  responsibility. 

And  then  came  the  order:     "Forward!" 

We  rode  at  full  gallop  toward  the  stone  wall  be 
hind  which  the  Texas  regiment  was  lying.  The  Tex- 
ans  had  ceased  firing,  and  we  knew  they  were  waiting 
to  pick  us  off  at  closer  range.  Our  men  tried  to  set 
up  a  cheer  as  we  rode  toward  the  fence  at  a  furious 
gallop,  but  we  could  not  do  it:  we  were  so  wrought 
up  from  expecting  the  volley  at  short  range. 

I  saw  the  first  man  who  fired:  a  young  fellow  on 
the  right,  and  I  heard  an  officer  curse  him  for  firing 
too  soon.  A  second  later  came  the  volley,  but  nearly 
every  bullet  went  over  our  heads,  as  we  were  charg 
ing  up  hill.  Then  there  was  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and 
we  came  to  a  halt  within  a  few  feet  of  the  stone  fence, 
while  some  of  our  men  in  advance  tore  it  down.  It 
is  a  wonder  we  were  not  all  killed,  but  the  smoke  was 
so  thick  that  the  enemy  could  not  take  accurate  aim. 

Our  men  had  only  revolvers,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
there  were  twenty  musket  shots  to  our  one.  I  fired 
five  times  at  a  bunch  of  infantrymen  ahead  of  me,  but 
I  do  not  know  that  I  hit  any  of  them.  Finally  I  saw 
some  of  our  men  urging  their  horses  through  an 
opening  in  the  stone  wall,  and  followed. 

In  five  minutes  we  lost  sixty-five  out  of  312  men. 
Every  time  a  man  near  me  was  hit,  I  could  hear  the 
pat  of  the  bullet.  I  saw  several  of  my  companions 
—174— 


JOE    ALLEN 


cringe  and  start  when  hit,  and  a  frightened  look  came 
into  their  faces.  A  young  fellow  I  had  known  all  my 
life  was  struck,  and  he  was  riding  so  close  to  me 
that  he  fell  over  on  my  horse's  neck.  I  straightened 
him  up  in  his  saddle,  and  told  him  to  hold  on  as  long 
as  he  could,  but  he  soon  fell  off  on  the  other  side. 
His  place  in  the  ranks  was  on  my  right,  and  his  horse 
remained  at  my  side  throughout  the  charge. 

I  had  a  pistol  and  a  sabre,  and  fired  the  pistol  as 
rapidly  as  I  could,  but  I  doubt  if  we  disabled  a  dozen 
of  the  enemy  altogether.  They  stood  behind  rocks 
and  trees,  and  fired  at  us  with  deliberation  and  care. 
I  chased  one  fellow  who  appeared  in  front  of  me, 
intending  to  cut  him  down  with  my  sabre,  but  he 
jumped  behind  a  tree,  and  I  hurried  on  to  join  my 
companions.  As  I  did  so,  I  saw  the  man  spring  from 
behind  the  tree,  and  fire  at  me.  There  was  the  great 
est  confusion,  but  I  heard  his  shot,  and  the  thud  of 
the  bullet  when  it  struck;  he  had  fired  at  me,  and 
struck  my  horse  in  the  neck.  The  horse  was  a  big 
bay  called  "Abe,"  in  honour  of  the  president;  but  he 
kept  on  going,  and  I  supposed  the  wound  was  not 
serious,  although  it  bled  freely. 

We  were  gone  an  hour  on  that  charge;  we  had 
passed  entirely  through  the  enemy's  lines,  and  were 
compelled  to  cut  through  again  to  reach  our  own. 
I  could  liken  it  to  nothing  except  getting  into  a. 
hornets'  nest. 

—175— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

It  was  while  we  were  in  this  situation,  riding  at  full 
gallop,  that  some  one  told  me  that  General  Farnsworth 
had  been  killed. 

We  could  only  locate  the  Confederate  lines  by  puffs 
of  smoke.  A  clump  of  trees  ahead  of  us  would  look 
quiet  and  peaceful  until  we  came  opposite,  when  out 
Would  come  puffs  of  smoke,  and  we  could  hear  the 
whistle  of  the  bullets.  A  friend  of  mine  named 
Marv.  Mason,  who  rode  ahead  of  me,  had  his  horse 
shot  under  him.  The  horse  fell  dead,  but  Marv. 
went  over  its  head,  and  struck  on  his  feet.  He  did 
not  stop  an  instant,  but  kept  on  with  the  regiment  on 
foot  until  he  caught  a  horse,  which  he  mounted,  and 
rode  safely  into  our  lines. 

Somewhere  during  the  charge,  a  man  rode  by  me 
with  his  leg  shot  off  by  a  cannon  ball.  Just  above 
the  stump  some  one  had  tied  the  sleeve  of  a  coat,  to 
stop  the  bleeding.  I  think  seeing  this  man,  with  his 
pale,  frightened  face,  is  my  most  distinct  recollection 
of  Gettysburg.  I  could  not  tell  whether  the  man  was 
a  Federal  or  Confederate.  There  were  two  men  with 
him  who  seemed  to  be  his  friends,  but  the  friends  ap 
peared  to  be  as  frightened  as  the  wounded  man,  and 
riding  as  madly  toward  safety. 

At  last  we  reached  our  old  position,  when  we  heard 

that  Pickett's  charge  had  failed.     We  remained  quiet 

until  dark,  everything  indicating  that  the  battle  was 

over,  when  we  were  ordered  to  dismount  in  a  meadow, 

—176 


JOE    ALLEN 


and  told  to  get  some  sleep.  The  heaviest  rain  I 
ever  experienced  was  falling;  I  saw  soldiers  soundly 
sleeping  that  night  who  were  half -covered  with  run 
ning  water. 

At  four  o'clock  the  next  morning  we  were  routed 
out,  and  ordered  to  saddle  at  once.  Then  I  discov 
ered  that  my  horse  was  too  badly  wounded  to  go;  he 
was  very  stiff,  and  could  not  get  up.  He  was  a  great 
favourite  in  my  company,  and  there  were  many  expres 
sions  of  regret  when  I  was  compelled  to  leave  old 
"Abe"  behind.  But  there  were  plenty  of  other  horses 
without  riders,  as  a  result  of  the  charge  of  the  day  be 
fore,  and  we  were  soon  on  the  move.  When  we  rode 
away,  old  Abe  was  lying  down,  and  I  had  no  idea  he 
would  ever  get  up  again. 

Private  soldiers  always  manage  to  find  out  what  is 
going  on.  We  knew  we  were  in  pursuit  of  Long- 
street's  corps  train,  and  hurried  all  day  toward 
Emmetsburg,  without  catching  sight  of  the  enemy. 
In  the  evening  we  halted  for  a  few  hours ;  and  while  I 
was  boiling  coffee,  I  heard  a  cheer  from  some  of  our 
men,  and  who  should  come  staggering  into  camp  but 
old  Abe!  We  gathered  around  him,  and  some  fed 
him  crackers,  while  others  bathed  his  neck. 

When  the  bugle  sounded  to  fall  in,  old  Abe  tot 
tered  to  his  place  in  the  column,  but  we  soon  started 
on  the  keen  run,  and  left  him  behind.  I  glanced 
back  ancl  saw  him  standing,  looking  after  us;  I  looked 
^-177— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

again,  and  he  was  following  us  slowly,  and  with  dif 
ficulty. 

In  an  hour,  just  after  dark,  we  struck  the  rear 
guard  of  Longstreet's  corps  train,  as  it  was  starting 
up  a  mountain.  Three  Michigan  regiments  dis 
mounted,  and  crowded  along  the  narrow  road.  Our 
regiment  was  next  to  the  dismounted  men,  and  we 
were  to  charge  through  and  stampede  the  train  as  soon 
as  we  found  an  opening. 

I  never  saw  such  a  display  of  fireworks  as  I  saw 
all  through  that  night.  Our  men  toiled  up  the  moun 
tain,  firing  as  fast  as  they  could,  and  the  Confederates 
fell  back,  stubbornly  resisting  our  advance.  Just  at 
daybreak  we  reached  a  level  spot  on  top  of  the  moun 
tain,  probably  fifteen  acres,  where  there  had  been  a 
summer  hotel  in  the  days  of  peace.  Here  we  cut  our 
way  through  the  rear  guard,  and  took  after  the  wagon 
train. 

There  were  two  pikes  leading  off  the  mountain,  and 
the  train  had  divided;  we  took  the  Smithburg  pike,  to 
head  off  and  capture  the  section  going  that  way.  The 
mules  attached  to  the  wagons  were  running  away 
down  the  hill;  but  we  had  to  go  by  them,  which  we 
did,  yelling  and  firing  pistols.  The  train  we  were 
after  was  two  miles  long,  and  I  saw  many  wagons  go 
over  the  bank  into  the  gulch  below.  Most  of  the 
wagons  had  wounded  in  them,  and  as  we  tore  along 
we  could  hear  the  cries  of  the  unfortunate  men. 
—178—. 


JOE    ALLEN 


Some  of  them  were  looking  out,  and  some  of  them 
jumped.  Many  of  the  drivers  were  shot  by  our  men; 
others  deserted  their  teams,  and  the  scene  was  fright 
ful. 

But  we  finally  got  ahead  of  the  train,  and  stopped 
it.  Then  we  went  to  burning  the  wagons  and  killing 
the  mules.  The  wounded  were  carried  to  the  side 
of  the  road,  but  we  had  no  time  to  look  after  them. 
We  halted  there  several  hours  during  the  time  hearing 
that  the  other  train  and  five  thousand  prisoners  had 
been  captured. 

Just  before  we  started  on  again,  old  Abe  came  walk 
ing  into  camp.  How  he  discovered  that  his  command 
had  gone  down  the  Smithburg  pike,  I  cannot  imagine, 
but  there  he  was,  and  he  at  once  took  his  place  among 
the  horses  of  my  company.  He  had  probably  seen 
the  fighting  all  through  the  night  before,  and  followed 
us  through  the  woods  when  it  must  have  seemed  to  him 
that  every  limb  on  the  trees  was  shooting  fire.  He 
was  not  far  away  when  the  charge  took  place  on 
top  of  the  mountain,  and  when  he  decided  to  follow 
the  Smithburg  pike,  knowing  by  some  instinct  that  his 
comrades  had  gone  that  way,  he  must  have  seen  sights 
and  heard  sounds  that  were  as  terrible  as  any  in  the 
history  of  the  war.  He  passed  the  entire  train  while 
the  wagons  were  being  burned,  the  wounded  dumped 
out,  and  the  mules  killed,  until  he  found  his  old 
friends  of  the  First  Vermont. 
—179— 


THE  ANTHOLOGY  OF  ANOTHER  TOWN 

His  story  now  came  to  be  noised  about,  and  cavalry 
men  from  other  commands  came  up  to  look  at  him, 
all  of  whom  offered  kindly  suggestions.  That  night 
we  were  at  Hagerstown.  I  heard  cheering  half  a 
mile  away,  and  knew  it  was  old  Abe  coming  in.  I 
rode  over  that  way,  and  met  him.  He  followed  me  to 
our  camp,  where  I  fed  and  watered  him.  He  seemed 
to  be  getting  better,  but  was  very  stiff  in  the  neck. 

At  midnight  we  hurried  on,  leaving  old  Abe  lying 
down.  There  was  no  long  halt  for  several  days,  but 
whenever  we  stopped  to  rest,  and  snatch  a  little  sleep 
or  a  mouthful  of  food,  old  Abe  would  come  in  on 
us.  Sometimes  he  would  strike  the  pickets  a  mile 
from  his  regiment,  but  always  found  his  way  to  us 
with  unerring  certainty. 

There  was  fighting  almost  every  hour  of  the  day, 
and  half  the  time  old  Abe  must  have  been  among  the 
enemy;  he  certainly  came  through  their  camp  every 
time  he  found  us,  for  we  were  in  advance,  and  travel 
ling  the  same  road:  our  purpose  was  to  burn  certain 
bridges  on  the  Potomac,  and  the  Confederates  were 
trying  to  prevent  our  doing  it.  But  old  Abe  knew 
which  crowd  he  belonged  with,  and  managed  to  find 
us  every  night.  Finding  the  horses  of  my  company, 
he  took  his  place  with  them,  first  having  a  tremendous 
row  with  his  successor. 

Every  day  he  got  in  a  little  earlier,  and  for  awhile 
in  the  morning  would  travel  by  my  side  in  the  column, 
—180— 


JOE    ALLEN 


always  looking  for  an  opportunity  to  get  a  kick  at  the 
new  horse  I  was  riding;  but  we  were  making  a  forced 
march,  and  he  would  soon  drop  out.  He  was  known 
as  "The  First  Vermont  Straggler,"  and  every  day  the 
soldiers  of  other  commands  would  call  to  us,  and  ask 
how  old  Abe  was  coming  on,  to  which  we  replied  that 
he  was  coming  on  very  well,  and  would  surely  be  in 
at  the  surrender. 

One  night  we  halted  at  11  o'clock  for  six  hours, 
and  I  worried  because  old  Abe  had  not  arrived.  But 
when  I  mentioned  the  matter,  it  happened  to  be  to  a 
soldier  who  had  been  on  picket  duty,  and  he  said  old 
Abe  came  along  the  road  within  half  an  hour  after 
he  took  his  place,  and  had  spent  two  hours  with  him, 
begging  for  crackers  out  of  his  knapsack.  Old  Abe 
was  becoming  a  good  deal  of  a  vagrant,  and  would 
loaf  with  any  of  our  command,  although  when  I  went 
out  to  saddle,  he  was  usually  with  the  horses  of  our 
company. 

I  think  he  kept  with  us  after  that,  usually  marching 
by  my  side,  though  he  would  break  ranks  occasion 
ally,  and  go  after  water,  or  nibble  grass.  Finally,  at 
the  end  of  the  tenth  day,  I  put  my  saddle  on  old  Abe's 
back  once  more,  and  rode  him  until  I  was  mustered 
out  as  one  of  Sheridan's  cavalry.  When  I  left  the 
camp  for  good,  I  saw  a  recruit  riding  old  Abe,  and  the 
recruit  was  being  congratulated  on  having  fallen  heir 
to  about  the  best  horse  in  the  service. 
—181— 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— ^      202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1      2                               3 
HOME  USE 

456 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1-month  loans  rnay  be  renewed  by  calling  M2-3405 
t-year  loan*  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  tho  books  to  the  Circulation  Desk 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

RECElviiyE^S  STAMPED  BELOW 

U6DE7CW£     f 

CIRCULATION  D£ 

T, 

APR  ?•  5  199S 

1AM    T    1    1        •' 

JAN  J  I  { 

^:-     '      .     ,'-  . 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1/83  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


939867 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


